


and it's alright

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [14]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Growing Up, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medication, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 11:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: Mickey doesn't know how or when it happened, but at some point he became the guy people turn to for help.





	and it's alright

**Author's Note:**

> This is the end! For now, anyway. I may come back to this later (especially with some Mandy and Svetlana parts) but for now I'm marking this series as complete ~~because it is long af~~ so I can step away to work on other fic! Thank you to everyone who read along and commented!

The little bell that means someone just came into the front office dings. Mickey’s halfway under some soccer mom’s van. This lady comes in for an oil change every other month even though Mickey keeps telling her she doesn’t need to. She’s kind of crazy and blinks a lot like she’s ten seconds away from crying, so Mickey mostly tries not to talk to her at all. He’s sure he’ll make her cry and that can’t be good for business.

“Svet!” Mickey yells toward her open window in the office. When Russell handed the garage over to Mickey, he brought Svetlana in to be his office manager. They mostly do the books together, because that’s something Mickey’s not awful at, but she handles the payroll and billing and all the shit Mickey doesn’t want to deal with. It’s nice, actually. The family business thing is kind of cool. They drive to work together and eat lunch together and argue over invoices. This is where she told him Nika took off again and cried on his shoulder and Mickey tried to comfort her but had no fucking clue what to do with his hands. It’s the most time Mickey’s ever spent with her, even including the early days of their marriage when Ian was gone and Mickey stopped leaving the house.

He floated the idea of reception to Mandy, but he wasn’t really surprised or hurt when she let him down easy. She’s not coming back to Chicago. She comes to visit pretty often, but she’s got her own new life in Detroit now. And it’s good for her. She looks healthier and happier every time he sees her. There are zero dudes in her office and she gets to tell the kind of people who’re excited to be pregnant that they are.

Fiona’s their receptionist now. She cried when Mickey asked her if she wanted the job. Health insurance, all the hours she wants, and she can blow off work pretty much whenever as long as she tells him—it’s a pretty sweet gig, if Mickey does say so himself. She’s way better with customers than Mickey or Svetlana could ever hope to be without Mickey having to worry assholes are going to try to walk all over her, but she’s off today because it’s V’s birthday.

He told Iggy and Colin they could come work for him, too, but they had to pass drug tests every month and quit selling. “Guns too?” Colin had asked.

“Yes, fucking guns too,” Mickey had said.

“What drugs can I still have?” Iggy had asked. “You gonna cut me out for weed?”

“You gonna show up fuckin high to work?” Mickey had shot back. Iggy and Colin had both shrugged, because so far in their lives, they hadn’t shown up to much _not_ high. “Look, I don’t care if you’re smoking weed or dropping Oxy _on your own time_ ,” Mickey had explained. “Be here when I tell you to be here. Don’t show up drunk or high and don’t do any fucking meth or heroin or coke. Quit selling. _All_ selling.”

“You want us to go totally straight?” Iggy had asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Mickey had said. “I want you to go fucking straight. That’s the point of this job. To get you money above the table. I’m not ever going back to the joint, you hear me? If I give you a job, you ain’t bringing that shit here. Not around me, and sure as fucknot around my kid.”

Colin only lasted two months, and Mickey even gave him three strikes. He didn’t even bother coming back after the second time he showed up high. He’d shrugged when Mickey showed up at his door and said, “Sorry, man. Can’t handle that shit sober.” He hadn’t even learned more than Yevgeny at that point. Mickey couldn’t really be all that mad at him. They’d all known it was a long shot.

Iggy though—Iggy’s still here. It’s a little mind-blowing, actually. He did show up high once, but Mickey kicked his ass out and reminded him of their deal, and he hasn’t done it since. He looks halfway respectable these days; he’s filling out a little, not so drugs-and-starving skinny like he’s always been. He’s got a kid now, and Mickey thinks that’s making a difference. He remembers that feeling, looking at Yevgeny and realizing he’d do anything to stick around for him. It didn’t hit until the kid was six and he was already vowing not to go back to the joint, but still.

“With customer,” Svetlana yells back, meaning she’s not going to deal with whoever just came in. Mickey huffs. He’s willing to bet she isn’t actually with anyone, or she’s drawing out a billing agreement as long as possible so she doesn’t have to deal with a new customer. Mickey and Svetlana are not exactly great at that side of things. If Ian weren’t so good at being a fucking superhero and saving people’s lives as a paramedic, Mickey would make him come do that shit whenever Fiona’s gone.

Mickey grumbles the whole way out from under the car. It’s the end of the day, and he already let the two employees who were working today take off. He’s not planning to take anyone else in tonight. He’s going to finish this oil change and get the hell out of here.

“Hi,” Mickey says, wiping his hands on a rag as he goes into the office. “Sorry, we—” He stops. It’s Ian. “Oh, hey. What’re you doing here?”

Ian’s leaning against the counter. He looks like a goddamn model. He turns his head to look at Mickey over his shoulder and Mickey has to shake his head a little. How can Ian still stop him in his fucking tracks like that? They’re coming up on their ten year wedding anniversary this year, and Ian still makes him drool.

“I got a proposition for you,” Ian says, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, I sure hope you do,” Mickey murmurs.

Ian laughs. “Mick, I’m serious. This is work stuff.”

“Uh huh,” Mickey says. “Let’s go in my office and _work_.”

Ian’s laughing at him some more. “Sure, let’s do it,” he says. He glances over at the soccer mom lady sitting in the chair. “You got time right now?”

Mickey forgot about her. “Oh.” He blinks. “Uh. You off now or what?”

Ian taps the radio on his belt. “Another hour.”

So this really isn’t a booty call. Ian doesn’t do that on call. He won’t risk getting caught with his pants down. Literally. Mickey harrumphs a little, and Ian laughs at him harder. He knows exactly where Mickey’s brain went. Mickey’s pretty sure he deserves some slack there; after all, his experience with Ian and working back in the day included a _lot_ of fucking on the clock, and he and Ian have fucked in his office like a million times in the eight years Mickey’s had an office. Mickey turns to the soccer mom lady, whose name he should really remember, considering how often she’s in here.

“I’m almost done with your car,” he promises. “Uh, I just gotta talk to him real quick, and then it’s going to be like twenty minutes, tops.”

“I can wait,” she says. She’s tapping away at her phone. Judging by the state of her car, this is probably the most peace and quiet she’s going to get all week. Maybe that’s why she’s always coming back. She looks up and gives him a big smile.

“Thanks,” Mickey remembers to toss over his shoulder. Ian went back on his own; it’s not like he doesn’t know his way around. Mickey follows him in and then pulls him in for a kiss. “Goddamn tease,” he says. “Show up looking all good, leaning over like that, and now you tell me I gotta wait?”

Ian’s grinning down at him, arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “I was just gonna come over when my shift’s up, but it’s been slow today.”

“So what’s up?” Mickey asks, giving Ian a little squeeze. He stays right there, holding onto Ian. He thinks, even in a hundred years, he’ll still just want to be like this, wrapped up in each other’s arms and breathing each other in. It’s not even just that Ian looked all good in the waiting room and now Mickey’s thinking about fucking; he just always feels better when they’re holding onto each other. That’s the kind of thing he used to feel self-conscious about, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt bad about that.

“Our ambulance tech quit,” Ian says. “The mechanic.”

“That freak with the nose ring?” Mickey asks. He snorts. “Yeah, he was fucking stupid and didn’t know how to do his job.”

“Yes, I know how you felt about him,” Ian says, amused. He always thinks it’s funny when Mickey hates people, as long as it’s not people Ian doesn’t want him to hate. Mickey sure got lucky on that front—there probably aren’t many other people who would sit with their chin resting on their hand and smile at him while he rants about wanting to kill some random guy who tailgated him. Mickey’s pretty sure a lot of it is due to the fact that Ian knows he’s a hundred percent talking shit with no plans to ever follow through with it.

Anymore.

“So I was talking to Marge about it,” Ian says. “I suggested partnering with an established garage instead of hiring our own in-house guys. Probably cheaper.”

Mickey huffs. “Oh, I see. So you’re planning to gouge the poor sap who owns the established garage, huh?”

Ian tugs him in closer. “I have some ideas of how I could make up for the loss to him.”

Mickey laughs. “You do, do you? Well, I’m listening, Gallagher.”

Ian nudges his nose along Mickey’s, teasing him the way Mickey loves. “See, I know the guy who owns the established garage. And I know just what he likes.”

“Yeah?” Mickey breathes, untucking Ian’s shirt and slipping his hands underneath.

“Mm,” Ian murmurs, a hairsbreadth from his lips. “I told Marge I could negotiate on our behalf.”

“You tell her how you’re gonna do that?” Mickey asks.

“Nope,” Ian says, sliding his hand up into Mickey’s hair. “There’s only one guy I’m telling.”

“Lucky guy,” Mickey says. He can’t take it anymore; he closes the tiny distance between them and kisses Ian.

“So you want me to have Marge send a contract over?” Ian asks when he pulls back.

Mickey snorts. “You probably already told her to, didn’t you?”

Ian laughs. “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t tell her without talking to you first.”

“You knew I wouldn’t say no to you,” Mickey says, kissing Ian again. “It’s fucking impossible.”

“I got you real whipped, huh?” Ian asks proudly.

“Hey, look who’s talking,” Mickey says.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “I’m real whipped for you, too.”

Mickey sort of sighs, and he would be embarrassed at how much he sounds like a lovesick middle school girl if anyone but Ian were around to hear him. He kisses Ian again, and then one more time, and then pulls back regretfully. “I gotta go finish that lady’s oil change.”

Ian makes a weird face. “Yeah, I bet she wishes you would.”

Mickey blinks. “What?”

Ian laughs out loud. “Mickey, come on. She wants you.”

“Wants me what?” Mickey asks, then he realizes what Ian’s saying and scoffs. “What? No.”

Ian’s laughing at him for real. “Oh, my God, Mick. Isn’t that the lady that comes in for an oil change like once a month? She’s got all that makeup on, her shirt’s all low-cut so you can see her tits, and she’s always batting her eyelashes at you.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Man, I think you’re seeing things.”

“I am _not_ ,” Ian insists, still laughing. “How can you not tell? She was eye-fucking you out there.”

Mickey shrugs. “Didn’t notice,” he says honestly.

Ian’s grin softens into something warmer. “Aw.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mickey says, even though he’s still got his hands up under Ian’s shirt and was just talking about how whipped he is for Ian. “I never notice if anyone’s flirting with me.”

“You know when I am,” Ian points out.

“You’re always flirting with me,” Mickey says. “Gagging for this ass every minute of every day.”

Ian grabs a handful of the ass in question. “Not denying that.”

It makes Mickey laugh. “Isn’t weird how we’re still—you know, like, all these years and I still look at you and I’m like…Jesus Christ, that fucker’s mine.”

Ian laughs, too. “I know. People talk about how the spark dies down but I still get hard just thinking about you when I’m working overnights.”

“You do not,” Mickey argues without any heat. “You can barely get hard when I’m sucking you off.” It’s not totally true. But it’s not totally _untrue_ , either.

Ian elbows him. “That’s so fucking rude,” he says with a laugh. He’s not nearly as sensitive about that as he used to be.

“Yeah, that’s 90% of my personality,” Mickey reminds him. “You knew that going in.”

Ian leans in for another kiss. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

That kind of thing used to blindside Mickey, Ian admitting not only that he knew all the bad shit in Mickey’s personality, but also that he liked it. _Loved_ it, even. Mickey’s getting used to it, though. Contrary to what most people think of him, he _can_ learn things. It’s been ten years of marriage, almost twelve of them being together this time, and eleven years of therapy. Mickey can just believe Ian when he says that kind of stuff now.

“Okay, fine, have Marge send me the contract and copy Svet on it, too,” Mickey says. “But I’m fighting over the price.”

Ian gives him another kiss, lips curving into a smile against Mickey’s. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You just gonna hang out until your shift’s up?” Mickey asks. “Where’s Greg?”

Ian looks a little guilty. “Waiting in the rig.”

Mickey snorts and shoves him away a little. “What kind of asshole leaves his partner in the car like that?”

Ian shrugs unapologetically. “The kind who knows his husband doesn’t like an audience.”

“Should bring Greg in to deal with Tits McGee out there,” Mickey says. “I sure as fuck don’t want her.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Ian asks, feigning surprise. “Wow, here I thought you were just waiting for the right woman all these years.”

“Get the fuck out of my office,” Mickey laughs.

“Carrot boy!” Svetlana calls down the hall, absolutely cementing Mickey’s suspicion that she lied about having a customer.

“Tell that commie I know she lied,” Mickey requests as Ian heads across the hall to Svetlana’s office.

“I hear you,” Svetlana says sweetly. “I do not care.”

“I’m gonna fire your Russian ass,” Mickey threatens. Svetlana blows him a kiss when he passes her open door. Mickey huffs and goes back out to the waiting room. Yevgeny’s in there now, perched on the chair two seats away from the soccer mom. He’s not looking at her tits, but he looks awkward enough that he’s certainly noticed them.

“Hey, kid,” Mickey says. He glances at the clock on the wall. “Practice end early?” To Mickey’s complete consternation, his son is the captain of the debate team. Mickey didn’t even know that was a thing. Like, you can have a whole fucking team to argue? Mickey should’ve gone to rich kid school. He would’ve cleaned up.

Yevgeny sighs. He’s seventeen, and he’s shaving now—only once every three days or so, and he really only needs to once a week, but still—but when he sighs he still brings his shoulders all the way up to his ears like he did when he was a little kid.

“There was this whole big thing at school,” he says. “Mr. Jacobson got fired.”

“No shit?” Mickey asks. He doesn’t actually know who Mr. Jacobson is. He’s either the history teacher or the art teacher, Mickey knows that much, but he can’t remember which.

“Yeah, you’re gonna hear about it,” Yevgeny says. “He was sleeping with a girl.”

“Oh, Christ, fucking pedo,” Mickey swears. He hates those nasty fucks. It always makes him think of Ian, floppy-haired and freckled, smiling dopily at him and getting groped by fucking Kash and Grab or the old grandpa who stitched up Mickey’s ass. Or Ian, eyes out of focus and half-naked, grinding on some dude older than his dad, opening his mouth obediently for drugs or who the fuck knows what else.

“She’s eighteen,” Yevgeny assures him. “But it’s still nasty.”

“Still fucking wrong,” Mickey agrees. “Just ‘cause they got caught now doesn’t mean it started when she was eighteen. You know about it ahead of time?”

“No, I swear,” Yevgeny says. “I would’ve turned ‘em in if I did.”

“Good,” Mickey says. “But why’s that mean debate’s over early? I thought that old lady was the advisor.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Lindholm,” Yevgeny says. “But they just cut everything short today because of it.”

“Ah. Sucks. At least you’re done with your competitions and stuff, though, right?”

“Yeah, we’re just meeting for fun until Thanksgiving break,” Yevgeny says. He sighs again. “Mr. Jacobson was the advisor for the LGBT club.”

“Oh, great,” Mickey groans. “Now we’re gonna have the fucking God contingent with the pitchforks again, huh? It’s gonna be all about how he’s a pedo because he was cool with fags.” To his right, soccer mom gasps. Mickey forgot about her again. He winces. “No, it’s okay,” Mickey assures her. “ _I’m_ a fag. I can say it.”

“He reclaimed the slur,” Yevgeny translates, though the look the lady gives him means that was gibberish to her. It would be to Mickey, too, if he didn’t have Debbie and Yevgeny saying shit like that left and right. Yevgeny joined the fucking gay club the second he saw their booth at the club fair his freshman year. Mickey asked him once, _kid, this mean you’re gay?_ Yevgeny had shrugged and said he didn’t think so, but it was for allies, too, and he didn’t have much choice when he has two dads and a mom who picks girls sometimes. Now Mickey has to listen to him and Debbie sit around talking about _LGBT historically significant events_ and _debates on intracommunity topics_. He still doesn’t know what half this shit means.

“You’re gay?” Soccer mom asks, and now Mickey can see the disappointment. Ian must be right—she wanted Mickey to get on her.

“That dude I was talking to is my husband,” Mickey confirms. “So I don’t think you can sue me for saying fag.”

“Uh, no,” she says. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Mickey looks over at Yevgeny. “We’ll go finish your car.” He tips his head and Yevgeny follows him out. “Oil change,” Mickey says. “I’m done with everything, just need to put the cap back on and fill it back up.”

“I’ll do it,” Yevgeny offers. He’s wearing his contacts today, so he doesn’t have to worry about fitting safety goggles over his glasses. Mickey is a hypocrite who doesn’t really ever wear goggles, but he still makes the kid wear them.

“So what’s your queer club gonna do without an advisor?” Mickey asks, just as Ian comes out.

“Wait, what happened to Mr. Jacobson?” Ian asks, because of course he remembers the dude’s name.

Mickey bites his lip for a second. He hates dredging all that shit back up for Ian. Not like he ever forgets it, really, but most of the time these days it’s pretty back-burner. “Fucking a student,” he says, watching Ian’s face. Ian purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “Kid says she’s eighteen now, but…” Mickey shrugs.

Ian nods. “You don’t usually just fuck one day out of nowhere,” he says, right on the edge of bitter. Mickey hooks a finger through Ian’s belt loop and pulls him closer.

“Hey,” Mickey says softly, rubbing Ian’s back. “Good?”

Ian nods, leaning into Mickey. “Yeah, I’m good. Just pisses me off.”

“I know,” Mickey murmurs. “Me too.”

Ian sighs. “And you know they’re all going to say he was some kind of sexual deviant because he was the advisor for the club.”

“That’s what I said!” Mickey says. He feels very validated. Everyone calls him paranoid, and yeah, he is, but Ian agrees with him so he’s probably not just making shit up this time.

“We don’t have a very big God contingent,” Yevgeny reminds them both. It’s not one of the religious private schools, because like fuck would Mickey agree to send his kid to one of those.

“Yeah, but all those people who got their fucking panties in a wad over your spring formal last year probably haven’t gone away,” Mickey reminds him. There was some hubbub about the kids being able to bring same-gender dates to the dance. Mickey sort of vaguely remembers hearing arguments about that on the news while he was locked up. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised they’re still having the same arguments for so goddamn long.

“True,” Ian says. “You guys getting a new advisor who can handle that?”

“Yeah,” the kid says with a shrug. “Ms. Hensley is taking over and she’s a lesbian.”

“That your big, butch science teacher who coaches the softball team?” Mickey asks.

“Oh, no,” Yevgeny says. “I mean, she’s a lesbian too. But Ms. Hensley’s the orchestra teacher or something.”

“Orchestra?” Ian asks, dread in his tone.

“Don’t do this to us again, kid,” Mickey pleads. The kid begged for violin lessons when he was like eleven. He was so bad his teacher wouldn’t even let him play his own song at their recital until Svetlana convinced her, probably under threat of violence. Every fucking day he would saw away at that thing and torture them all. If they weren’t renting the damn thing, Mickey would’ve filled it with bullet holes. The day he said he was done with violin was the happiest day of Mickey’s life, including his fucking wedding to Ian, and he knows for a fact Ian agrees on that.

“Fuck off,” Yevgeny says, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t _that_ bad. Music is just math, right?”

“No,” Ian says, at the same time Mickey says,

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Anyway, I’m not joining orchestra, calm your tits,” Yevgeny says with another eyeroll. “It’s at the same time as my calc class. And I wouldn’t have time to practice anyway. Swim starts in two weeks.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Mickey says.

“Some supportive parents you are,” Yevgeny huffs, but he’s trying to pretend he isn’t laughing.

“I haven’t missed a goddamn swim meet in like twenty years,” Mickey points out. “How old are you? How long you been doing this?”

“So funny, Dad,” Yevgeny says sarcastically.

“And we’ve gone all the way to Bloomington four years in a row now for debate championships,” Ian points out. “You should give us that trophy you won. We earned it.”

“Fucking fathers of the year,” Mickey agrees.

Yevgeny loses his little fight against laughing. “Okay, I’ll make you really great Father’s Day presents this year,” he promises.

“No more of that macaroni picture frame shit,” Mickey says.

Ian snorts. “That would be more convincing if you didn’t have like seven of them in your office.”

“If I made you another macaroni picture frame, you’d totally use it,” Yevgeny agrees, still laughing. “You’re all talk, Dad.”

“He always has been,” Ian says conspiratorially. “Everyone thought he was so scary but he’s been a teddy bear all along.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, the state of Illinois disagrees. So does your fucking half-sister.”

Ian laughs. “Aw, don’t worry, Mick, we know you’re a big tough guy.” Mickey gives him a titty twister, and they horse around a little. Yevgeny doesn’t even stop working, too used to their antics to even notice.

“Done,” Yevgeny says, dropping the hood. “This lady seems like she comes in a lot.”

He’s being casual—he sounds as clueless as Mickey was—and Ian cracks up laughing. When Mickey gives him a dirty look, he laughs even harder. He smacks Mickey on the ass and winks at him.

“Like father, like son.” He pulls Mickey in for a kiss and says, “I gotta get back and make sure Greg didn’t fuck anything up. See you home. I gotta talk to you about something.”

Years ago, that would make Mickey’s heart seize up, horrible possibilities dancing through his mind’s eye. He’s not so bad about that anymore. Sure, with everything else he goes to worst-case scenarios, but not with Ian talking to him. Ian’s not leaving him or anything like that. Mickey doesn’t even worry about that anymore.

“Like father, like son what?” Yevgeny asks.

“Nothing,” Mickey says, enjoying the view as Ian walks away. Ian knows he’s watching, and he’s totally swinging his hips extra. He shoots a smirk over his shoulder just before he turns the corner. “He’s just jealous ‘cause girls want us.”

Yevgeny looks skeptical. “Why would he be jealous of girls wanting us? He doesn’t even like girls.”

“Never mind,” Mickey says. “It’s a long story.” It’s not, really, but Mickey doesn’t feel like talking about it anymore. He looks over at the office. Svetlana must’ve felt bad about leaving him to his own devices all afternoon, because she’s dealing with the soccer mom’s paperwork. Mickey juts his chin toward the window. “Soon’s your mom’s done we can go home.”

“Okay.”

Yevgeny gets kind of quiet while they wait for Svetlana, leaning against the car outside. Mickey waits him out; it doesn’t normally take long for him to break and talk about whatever’s on his mind. Sure enough, he glances over at Mickey and bites his lip, and then he says, a little hesitantly,

“Hey, Dad?”

“What’s up?”

“Well…” Yevgeny gathers his thoughts. “When you were my age, you got arrested, right?”

Mickey shrugs. “I got arrested before I was your age,” he points out. “But if you mean the last time, nah. I was older. I was already eighteen.”

Yevgeny huffs. “Ok _ay_ , but like, _barely_ , right?”

Mickey shrugs again. “Yeah. Why?”

Yevgeny sighs. “Well, all these college applications are asking me to write an essay, you know?” No, Mickey doesn’t know shit about college applications, and Yevgeny knows that, but Mickey doesn’t bother saying anything. “And the counselor said a good idea is to write about someone important. A hero. So I was gonna write about you and Mama and Ian, but…” He shrugs. “I’d probably have to ask you a bunch of questions about prison and all the other bad stuff. I don’t want to bring it all up again.”

Mickey can’t even speak. _Hero?_ The kid just tosses that shit out like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t give him pause to think about Mickey being a hero. Because it really _doesn’t_. He’s always seen Mickey that way. Mickey has to blink away tears.

“No, it’s okay,” he chokes out. Yevgeny looks over at him fast.

“Dad, you don’t have to talk about it,” he says quickly. “It’s okay. I know it’s all fucked up and you don’t like—”

“Kid, I ain’t crying over that,” Mickey says. “You know I talk to all those dudes on parole. And with the therapy and everything…no, it’s okay. I can talk about it.”

“So why are you crying?” Yevgeny asks. He mostly just sounds confused. He knows Mickey cries easily, but usually he can guess why. The fact that he can’t right now makes Mickey want to cry even more. Mickey has to take a deep breath and push down his embarrassment before he answers. He’s a lot better at being sentimental, especially when it comes to Yevgeny, but there’s always going to be a little seed of uncertainty in the back of his head when he is.

“’Cause you just said you’re gonna write about a hero,” Mickey says, voice wobbling a little bit. Luckily, Yevgeny’s a smart kid, and he picks up what Mickey means right away. He smiles, but he blushes a little and ducks his head.

“Yeah, Dad,” he says. “Duh.”

Mickey gives him a gentle noogie. “Duh?” He asks. “Come on, don’t fucking mock me, man.”

Yevgeny laughs and pushes him away. “I’m not _mocking_ you, Dad,” he assures him. “It’s just—I don’t know. It’s been like a million years and you still don’t know.” He shrugs. “You’re the best dad ever. And you…” Now Yevgeny’s voice shakes a little. “You didn’t have to stick around for me. You didn’t even—” He cuts himself off. They both know what he’s thinking; Mickey didn’t even want him. Mickey didn’t even get to choose anything about having him. “But you love me anyway.”

Mickey’s basically bawling now. He pulls Yevgeny close again, just for a hug this time. “Hard not to, kid,” he says. It’s the truth. Mickey doesn’t know how anyone could’ve taken a look at that little boy in his glasses with his stack of books and not loved him. Remembering how annoyed Mickey was when he first got out and had to deal with the kid is like remembering a character from a movie he saw a long time ago. It doesn’t even seem like it was him.

“So it’s okay if I write about you?” Yevgeny asks.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey says, like this isn’t the biggest thing that’s happened to him since he and Ian got married.

“What about Ian and Mama?”

Mickey shrugs. “You’ll have to ask them,” he points out. “But I don’t think they’ll say no. They’re both okay with talking about their shit, too. ‘Specially if you butter them up with the hero talk like you just did with me.”

Yevgeny laughs a little. “I didn’t say that just so you’ll say yes,” he says softly, not meeting Mickey’s eyes. Mickey swallows down the lump in his throat and smacks a kiss to his kid’s forehead. Sure, he’s a senior in high school and he’s getting ready for college and he’s taller than Mickey now, but he’s still Mickey’s kid and Mickey can give him a kiss on the forehead whenever he wants.

“I know,” Mickey tells him. He gives Yevgeny another little squeeze and then lets him go. He swipes the tears off his face with the back of his hand. “What colleges are you even applying to?” He asks. “Chicago and Northwestern and what else?” They did a campus tour over the summer at Northwestern. They didn’t need a campus tour of University of Chicago. Lip’s been working there forever, and Yevgeny’s been going to nerd summer camp there for years.

“Notre Dame, Michigan, and Washington in St. Louis. And then University of Illinois and University of Wisconsin, but those are just safety schools. I could go to Purdue if I _really_ have to.”

He says this last part almost disdainfully. Mickey has to shake his head a little. His fucking kid. Some kind of genius or something. Mickey doesn’t know what the hell ACT or SAT scores mean, but according to the little chart thing for scores, Yevgeny killed it. He was in the 93rd percentile. Mickey doesn’t know where the hell he gets it.

“You don’t want…I mean, I don’t know, but isn’t like, Harvard the best one?” Mickey asks. People on TV always talk about Harvard. “Shouldn’t you apply there?”

“Chicago was ranked third in the country last year,” Yevgeny says. “Harvard’s not better by enough to make it worth it.”

“Worth what?” Mickey asks. “They’re all begging you to go there since you’re a fucking egghead. And you don’t have any parents who went to college, so you’re gonna get all that money for being the first one. And you can write your whole sob story about us being poor white trash and everything. So money’s not gonna be a problem. You can go anywhere, kid.”

“No, not that, Dad,” Yevgeny says. “I just—I don’t want to go far away.” He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “I want to be close to home.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I’m not complaining about keeping you around, you know,” he says. “But kid…don’t be scared, okay? Or like…don’t let being scared make you back off.”

“I’m not really scared,” Yevgeny says. “I don’t think so. I just don’t want to go far away. Why would I do that when University of Chicago’s such a good school _and_ I could come home for dinner with you guys whenever I want?”

God, Mickey is not going to survive this year if the kid keeps saying all this sentimental shit. It’s bad enough thinking about the kid moving out, but when he adds in stuff like that, it’s even worse. Mickey’s about to start crying again.

Mickey knows a lot of Yevgeny’s friends are applying to schools in fucking California, trying to get as far away from their parents as possible. One of Yevgeny’s little nerd friends is going all the way to _England_. A whole separate fucking continent. And here’s Yevgeny, planning his whole future around being close enough to hang out with his parents.

“Fuck, kid,” Mickey says. He squeezes the back of Yevgeny’s neck. “I’m not gonna fight you on it. Because we want you around, you know that, right?”

“I know, Dad,” Yevgeny assures him. “I’ve always known that.”

Svetlana comes out and raises her eyebrows at Mickey’s teary eyes. “Something big or normal crying?”

Mickey flips her off. “Fuck off.”

Yevgeny laughs a little, standing up to give his mom a hug. “Dad’s just crying because I’m talking about college.”

Svetlana’s forehead creases. “Good reason to cry.”

“He wants to stay close,” Mickey tells her. His voice shakes a little when he says, “He wants to be able to come home for dinner.”

“Oh,” Svetlana says. She laughs a little and pinches Mickey’s cheek, but he sees her blinking hard. “Okay, then.”

Mickey snorts as they get in the car. “Fucking make fun of me for crying.”

“Am I crying?” She asks blandly.

“Yes,” Mickey says.

“She’s not crying,” Yevgeny says with a little laugh.

“For her, that’s crying,” Mickey points out. “Wait until we get home and you tell her and Ian about the essay thing. You’re gonna go three for three on bawling parents, kid.”

“Is this going to happen with everything this year?” Yevgeny asks with a little sigh. “Like when Ian cried on the first day of school ‘cause it was the last one?”

“Yep,” Mickey says easily. Mickey didn’t even cry on the first day of school, so it was nice to not be the one causing a scene for a change. Of course, once Ian pointed out if was Yevgeny’s last first day of school, _then_ Mickey cried, but still. At least he didn’t start it.

“Probably yes,” Svetlana agrees. She shoots a smile at Yevgeny as she backs out. “Baby is not baby anymore.”

Yevgeny heaves another put-upon sigh. “Now you’re making me want to apply to a school in California.”

Mickey scoffs. “Do it, bitch. You wouldn’t last a week. Took you 16 years to stay a whole night at a fucking sleepover.”

Yevgeny cracks up laughing. “Dad! One second you’re crying because you love me and the next you’re calling me a bitch and telling me to leave.”

“How he always is,” Svetlana says. “Ask Ian. Used to fuck and then fight each other.”

“We didn’t fight after we fucked,” Mickey corrects. “We fought and then fucked. But only like twice. Maybe three times.”

“I hear you guys fight and then have makeup sex all the time,” Yevgeny points out. _All the time_ seems like a stretch. They don’t really fight much anymore. Not real fights. Sure, they snip at each other and argue. But actual fights where they’re _mad_ at each other, not just annoyed, are rare. In the grand scheme of their life together, there’s not much happening these days that seems really bad. Yevgeny probably just hears them wrestling and ripping on each other like they do for foreplay and assumes it’s a fight and makeup sex.

“No, we used to actually beat each other up and then fuck,” Mickey says. “ _Just_ the one or two or maybe three times.” He furrows his brow. “I can’t remember how many times. Two I can think of right away, but…” He shakes his head. “I mean, probably more. And then a few times we beat someone else up together and then fucked. Shit, I was a murderous dick.”

“Attempted murder,” Yevgeny corrects benevolently. “You never actually murdered someone.” That the kid knows about, and none that Mickey was solely involved in, but whatever.

Mickey laughs. “Thanks,” he says. “Maybe you should be a lawyer.”

“Maybe.” Yevgeny shrugs. “I’m keeping my options open.”

Mickey would laugh at that, too, except it fills up his heart with pride. His kid has _options_. Real options, too— _career_ options. He’s not picking between working at the gas station or working at the waffle place. Right now he’s trying to decide if he wants to be a lawyer or a doctor. And those are _real options_ for him. It still blows Mickey’s mind to think about it. He can think of plenty of things he did wrong, raising the kid. But somehow, the kid seems to be coming out alright anyway.

 

“Alright,” Mickey says once he and Ian are situated in bed. “What’s up?”

“Dr. Saria told me about this new clinical trial,” Ian says, not beating around the bush. He knows Mickey can’t stand that. “New meds. Some kinda combo pill, so I don’t have to take three different ones every day. Just one pill, twice a day, and it’s supposed to be more effective for the mania.”

Mickey brings his hand up to Ian’s hair while he thinks about that. “Trial?” He asks. “Like…they don’t know if it actually works.”

Ian sighs. “Well, technically, yeah, I guess. I think they’re pretty sure at this point, though.”

“But what if they’re wrong?” Mickey asks, stomach clenching at the thought. Ian’s been on the same med combo for about thirteen years now, since before Mickey even got out. He can tell when a swing is coming, and it usually only lasts a few days. He hasn’t had a manic or depressive phase last longer than two weeks the entire time they’ve been married, and none of them have ever been so bad he’s had to call off more than three days of work. Mickey feels like messing with that is playing with fire.

“It’s a possibility,” Ian admits softly.

Mickey worms his way over to Ian’s pillow and makes sure they’re eye-to-eye. “What’re you thinking?” He asks Ian.

Ian traces a finger around Mickey’s face, circling his ear and down his jaw and then going up to slide down his nose. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t have at least an idea of what you want. Come on, man, how many days you been stewing on this?”

Ian huffs a little laugh. “Only one. He told me in my session yesterday.”

“Wow, that’s like a record,” Mickey praises. He used to get annoyed that Ian was always pushing him to talk but would take a few days to tell him shit, but he knows Ian just needs to process things on his own at first, especially when it comes to his bipolar and his meds. They’re partners in everything and Mickey’s always going to be there for Ian, but Mickey can’t ever actually know what that shit feels like. Ian gets to take his time considering that. He always comes to Mickey when he’s ready.

“Supposed to be less severe side effects,” Ian says quietly.

Mickey clenches his teeth. “This all about the fucking weight?”

“No,” Ian says. “Okay, a little.”

“Ian,” Mickey starts.

“I know,” Ian says. “You don’t care—”

“I _care_ ,” Mickey says. “If you care, I care. I just—”

“You don’t want me freaking out about it. I know,” Ian assures him.

“But you still do.”

Ian shrugs. “I still do.” Not nearly as bad as he used to, for sure, and he hasn’t had an issue with running too much or cutting too many calories in years, but still. Mickey hates that it’s still hovering in the back of his mind.

Mickey puffs out a breath. “You want to switch your meds just to maybe not gain weight?”

“The new one’s supposed to maybe have less severe sex side effects, too,” Ian says, raising his eyebrows.

“You know I’m not complaining about that, either,” Mickey says.

“I want to feel normal, Mick,” Ian says, not meeting his eyes.

Mickey sighs. “Okay, but…I mean, come on. We’re in our thirties now. I probably won’t be able to get it up soon, either, right? Isn’t that what happens to old guys? That _is_ normal.”

Ian snorts. “Mickey, I don’t think that’s normal until your forties or something. Just because we didn’t think we’d live this long doesn’t mean we’re old.”

“Neither of these seem like big enough issues that you’d want to switch to a fucking experiment,” Mickey points out. “Are your meds right now not working anymore or something?”

“They’re still working as well as they ever have. But if a new one can work even better, that’ll be good. And it’s—you know the long-term stuff? The memory problems and all that shit as you get older. This is supposed to help with that.”

Mickey can feel his eyebrows pull together. “You worried about that?”

Ian shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, I haven’t noticed any problems so far, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come later.”

Mickey bites his thumbnail. “How bad’s it supposed to be?” He asks. “We talking putting reminders in your phone to get to work or we talking you forget who I am?”

“I doubt I’d ever forget who you are,” Ian says with a laugh. “Not even like in a cheesy way. Just in terms of long-term memory, you know? With Alzheimer’s and that kinda shit, most people still remember their childhoods.” He gives Mickey a sweet little smile. “I’ve known you so long, you’ll be in my brain forever.”

Mickey kind of scoffs, but he knows he’s not fooling Ian. He actually finds that intensely comforting. He has trouble picturing them as really old guys, but he would absolutely not make it if they ever forgot about each other.

“So is it like Alzheimer’s?” Mickey asks.

“No,” Ian says. “Probably not that severe. But…” He shrugs. “No way to know, really.”

It’s not that Mickey doesn’t understand why Ian’s afraid of the possibility he’ll start forgetting things. But the prospect of changing his meds when everything’s working so well right now is scary. Mickey keeps picturing Ian’s face when he came home and told Mickey he shot porn—he said it so carelessly, like it was no big deal. Mickey remembers rounding the corner to their street and seeing the suitcases and shit lined up on the porch, and then the absolute batshit way Ian was obsessing over organizing them. He sees Ian punching him in the face, shoving him and calling a faggot, and then walking away as Mickey ran from bullets whizzing by him, how he was stone-faced and irritable while Mickey tried to cling to their relationship behind a sheet of glass. He knows that shit isn’t going to happen again, but the fear’s clogging up his throat.

Mickey scrubs his hands down his face. “You gotta decide right now?”

“No, the trial doesn’t start until February,” Ian says softly. “ _We_ have time to think it over.” He gives Mickey a look. “This isn’t just my decision, Mick.”

“I…” Mickey swallows hard. “You could switch your meds and they—I mean, what if the new shit doesn’t even work? What if you’re like…the fucking sugar pill thing?”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about medical studies.”

“Okay, A. fuck you,” Mickey grumbles. “And B. I read a ton of shit the first time. Back—you know. Before.”

Ian nods, resting his forehead against Mickey’s. “We don’t have to do it.”

“But you want to,” Mickey concludes.

Ian sighs. “I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”

Mickey knows this should be Ian’s decision. It’s Ian’s disease, Ian’s brain, Ian’s issues further down the line. But thinking about Ian off his meds again is making Mickey’s hands shake. “Can we…” Mickey swallows hard again. “Can we just think about it?”

“Yeah, Mick, of course,” Ian says. “I didn’t mean this to be something we decide right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says.

“For what?” Ian asks, all surprised.

“For not—I shouldn’t be trying to make the decision for you. I’m not the one going through it. I should just support what you—”

Ian cuts him off with a finger against his lips. “No,” he says gently. “Mickey, stop. You _are_ the one going through it. You’re the one who had to carry me to the bathroom to make sure I could take a shit when I was low and unmedicated.”

“I don’t care about that,” Mickey says, lump rising in his throat despite his words. It wasn’t that he minded carrying Ian to the bathroom; it was that Ian had to be carried. Ian, his unstoppable Army man, couldn’t even stumble the three feet from the bed to the bathroom. It was so long ago, almost two decades now, but Mickey’s never going to forget how that felt.

“This isn’t just me,” Ian points out. “I know you’re scared because I…” He sighs. “I acted like it was just me. Last time you were trying to get me to take meds.”

“Ian, that’s not—” Mickey tries.

“Mickey,” Ian stops him. “It’s okay. It’s okay to still be scared from before.”

Mickey takes a shaky breath and hides his face in Ian’s neck. “Yeah, I’m scared,” he admits.

“I know,” Ian says. “Me too.”

“But you think it’s worth it?” Mickey asks.

“I don’t know,” Ian says. He pushes a hand through Mickey’s hair. “That’s what I want us to think about.”

“If we could get some kinda guarantee,” Mickey says.

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “We can’t, though. It’s a risk.”

Mickey shivers. He’s not a big fan of taking risks when it’s Ian who’ll catch the fallout. “I don’t know,” he says honestly.

“Okay,” Ian says, face totally neutral. Mickey’s not an idiot; he knows Ian’s kind of disappointed. He says he’s not sure about all this, but Mickey knows he wants to try it. If it weren’t for Mickey and Svetlana and Yevgeny, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice. He wouldn’t care about the risk, not when it came to work or anything like that. He’s only holding back because they’re a family now, and he can’t just jump into things.

That shouldn’t make Mickey feel guilty. It does, though. They don’t talk about it any further. They settle down into bed, and Ian presses up against Mickey’s back with his arm around Mickey’s waist like always. He’s not mad at Mickey or anything like that. But Mickey can’t shake the feeling that he just royally fucked up.

 

Mickey’s up at three in the morning, because of course he is. These days, he almost always sleeps through the night, but then he’ll have a week or so of bad nights all in a row. So now he’s up, and he’s prowling through the house making sure all the doors are locked and the windows are closed even though he always goes around the house and does that before he goes to bed. He just has that itch on the back of his neck that means someone’s watching. He knows in his head no one is, but still.

He glances out the peephole and almost yells because there is _someone on the doorstep._ He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Then he creeps back into the bedroom and gets his gun. He doesn’t carry it at the small of his back every day anymore, but he still makes sure it’s always clean and ready to go just in case. Usually, when he’s awake at three in the morning, he’s cleaning his gun. It settles him. He considers grabbing Ian, but he decides against it. The most logical explanation here is that Mickey just imagined that, and waking Ian up because Mickey’s jumpy is a stupid fucking idea.

He goes back to the door and glances out again. There _is_ someone there. Mickey presses his eye as close to the hole as he can, trying to figure out what the person is doing. Someone’s sitting on the first step, leaning against the railing. The body looks…Mickey squints a little. That’s definitely someone passed out on their doorstep.

He deliberates for a second. Could just be someone drunk who passed out. Could be someone pretending to be passed out to lull him into a false sense of security so he goes out there and they jump him.

“Come on,” Mickey scoffs at himself. That’s a bit much. It’s been like an entire decade since Mickey even gave anyone a reason to come after him in the middle of the night. He cocks the gun and eases the door open. Two seconds after he opens the door, he realizes it’s Colin. His hair is shorter than Mickey’s ever seen it, so that’s probably why Mickey didn’t recognize him. Mickey breathes out harshly and puts the safety back on the gun, stuffing it in the back of his pants. It’s weird how that feels weird now. Mickey never used to go anywhere unarmed. He walked around his own house with a gun back there. Now it feels clunky and he’s worried the fucking thing’s going to fall down.

“Colin?” Mickey whispers. He steps around his brother and crouches down. He swears under his breath. Colin’s face is all beat to hell. Mickey nudges his shoulder, but Colin doesn’t respond. Stomach dropping, Mickey presses a hand to Colin’s neck. He can feel a heartbeat, at least, so he calms down a little. Mickey weighs his options, but there’s really no way he’s going to leave his beaten-unconscious brother outside like that, especially not in the middle of the night in fucking December. He grabs Colin under the armpits and drags him inside. It’s probably not the gentlest way Mickey could’ve handled it, but he doesn’t have a lot of other options. Colin’s way bigger than he is.

Mickey gets him laid out on the floor and closes and locks the door. Then he goes to do something he hates—he wakes up Ian. Mickey does not like waking Ian up, especially in the middle of the night. If Mickey had his way, Ian would sleep twelve hours every night uninterrupted. On satin sheets or something like that. Lack of sleep is not good for Ian, even when he’s on meds and doing everything he needs to keep his bipolar disorder under control. Even if he convinces Mickey the medical trial is a good idea, new meds aren’t going to change that.

Going to paramedic school was a big thing for Ian. He wasn’t going to do it, because he’d have to quit working while he did it. Not because that’s required; he just knew if he was juggling a job and doing the training and schoolwork, his mental health would probably slide. Mickey had to encourage him pretty hard to do it. He hated that Ian saw the tradeoff as a personal shortcoming. In Mickey’s eyes, the fact that Ian recognized he’d need to protect himself and was willing to do it was pretty impressive. Mickey would’ve just barreled right through and ended up in a breakdown. But Ian saw that as weakness on his part. Mickey doesn’t like waking Ian up and making them both face the aftermath and all the worry that causes for Ian, because he sees that as a weakness, too. Even when he isn’t on an up or downswing, changing his routine makes him worried it’s going to happen.

But Mickey’s not the paramedic in this house, and Colin’s light’s out in the living room, so he doesn’t have a lot of options here. He does consider just letting Ian sleep and waiting for Colin to come to on his own, but he knows Ian’ll be pissed when he finds out. Mickey’s nonchalance over head injuries drives Ian up the wall.

“Ian,” Mickey murmurs, settling a hand on Ian’s cheek. “Hey.” He’s not really sure why he’s whispering when he’s trying to wake Ian up, but whatever.

“Mm?” Ian mumbles.

“I need some help,” Mickey says. Ian blinks a few times, confused about what’s going on.

“Mick?”

“Need some help,” Mickey repeats, once Ian’s looking at him more clearly. Ian sits up.

“What’s going on? Nightmare?”

Mickey rolls his eyes a little, because like hell would he purposefully wake Ian up for a nightmare, but he shakes his head. “Uh, found Colin passed out outside.”

That takes a second to filter through Ian’s sleep-haze, and then he looks alarmed. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Mickey says while Ian roots around for a pair of sweats. “Found him out there.”

“Locking up?” Ian asks. “You know we locked the door before we went to bed.”

“You really want to criticize my crazy _now_?” Mickey snaps, because he doesn’t take his shit out on Ian, not anymore, but he does have a limit, and it turns out his limit is finding his brother unconscious on their doorstep at three in the morning and then Ian pointing out his illogical anxiety.

“No, no, you’re right,” Ian relents. “Good for Colin, for sure. It’s fucking snowing. He probably wouldn’t have made it to morning if you hadn’t found him.” Ian looks up, fast. “Sorry. Shit, Mickey, I didn’t—I mean, fuck, he’ll probably be fine.”

Mickey shakes his head, though he is starting to feel sick now. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s…you’re right, though. Let’s just see what’s wrong with him.”

Ian takes a second to put an arm around Mickey’s waist and give him a squeeze, lean in close and kiss his temple. Mickey closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ian always grounds him. Ian stops in the bathroom to grab the first aid kit and Mickey, absurdly, is afraid to go into the living room without him. It’s just…well, Colin could be—Mickey doesn’t know. He didn’t look good all slumped over like that, and Mickey’s adrenaline is still at max from finding someone on his front porch when he wasn’t expecting it. Ian takes Mickey’s hand as they walk down the hallway. He can tell Mickey’s jumpy, to say the least.

Colin’s conscious now. Not by much, but he’s conscious enough that he’s groaning and trying to sit up. Ian rushes forward and puts a hand on his chest to stop him. “Colin. Hey. Do you know where you are?”

Colin blinks a few times. “I came for Mickey.”

“Came for me what?” Mickey asks. He doesn’t really mean to sound so hostile, but he thinks it’s understandable, given the circumstances.

“Need your boyfriend to give me stitches,” Colin says.

“Husband,” Mickey corrects absently. “The fuck happened to you?”

Colin groans some more while Ian shines his little flashlight in his eyes. “Late with some money.”

“You could’ve fucking asked me for some,” Mickey growls. “Money for what? Better not be fucking crystal again.”

“Fucking distributor,” Colin mumbles. “Fronted some coke and then the asshole didn’t pay, so then my guy comes after me for not paying on time. That light’s so bright, man, fuck off.”

“Do you know what day it is?” Ian asks.

“What?” Colin asks back.

“The day. Do you know what day of the week it is?” Ian asks.

“Um…Tuesday?” Colin guesses. Mickey rolls his eyes. Sure, he usually has to take a second to think about which day of the week it is, too, but at least he doesn’t just blindly guess.

“He has a concussion,” Ian says. He shrugs. “I mean, obviously.”

“He always has a fucking concussion,” Mickey mutters. “Who stiffed you? Why the fuck you working under some nobody anyway?”

“Okay, Mick, maybe in the morning?” Ian suggests, getting out the needle and thread. “He’s not going to answer a lot of questions like this. Colin, where do you need stitches?”

“Um, I think here,” Colin says. He points at his arm. They have to shake him out of his coat, and then Mickey can see Colin’s arm is covered in blood. There’s a gash on his bicep, probably from a knife, and Ian has to be quick to throw Colin’s coat back under him so he doesn’t drip blood on the carpet.

“Yeah, I’d say that needs stitches,” Ian huffs.

Mickey stands there with his arms crossed while Ian starts putting stitches in Colin’s arm. “What do we do with him?” Mickey asks gruffly.

“What do you mean?” Ian asks.

“I mean fucking—the kid’s going to be awake before he is.”

Ian sighs. “Yeah.”

“Not putting him in our room with us.” Mickey frowns at Colin. He knows Yevgeny knows Colin’s still dealing, but they’ve been trying to shield him from actual evidence. Mickey paces a little, biting at his thumbnail.

“I mean, I think Yev can handle this,” Ian points out.

“Been years since he saw me beat up like this,” Mickey says. “He might not even remember that time after my dad died.”

Ian winces. “Sorry, Mick, but I think he does.”

Mickey shoves at his hair and sighs. “Fine, whatever. I’ll get some fucking blankets. We gotta get up and check on him?”

Ian shrugs. “I’ll be up in three hours for work,” he points out. “I’ll check on him before I leave.”

“I’ll be up, too,” Mickey says.

“You don’t have to be,” Ian says. “You’re the boss, Mick. You could sleep in if you want.”

“Ian, there’s no way I’m going back to sleep tonight,” Mickey points out softly.

Ian purses his lips. “Well, you’re at least going to come lie down with me. Go get the blankets while I finish checking him out and cleaning him up. Then we’re going back to bed.”

Mickey doesn’t argue. Ian told him there’s benefits just to lying down with his eyes closed, even if he can’t sleep. Mickey’s not sure he’s felt any benefits, but it’s certainly never felt _bad_ to lie down wrapped up with Ian.

“He’ll be okay,” Ian decides in the morning. Colin wakes up, mostly, when Ian shines the light in his eyes again, but he rolls over on the couch and goes back to sleep as soon as Ian lets him. “You gonna keep an eye on him today?”

Mickey sighs. “Guess so. For a while. Fiona and Svet can handle the stuff at the garage. Kerri and Jake are on today and they’ll be okay without me, at least for half the day.”

Ian runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair and pulls him in for a kiss. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Always need you, dipshit.”

Ian cracks up laughing. “How romantic.” He kisses Mickey again and then pats him on the ass comfortingly. “It’ll be okay, Mick.”

Mickey clings for another second, just because he wants to, and then he kisses Ian and sends him off to work. Sometimes he thinks about how Ian could’ve shacked up with some sugar daddy. Not necessarily those old perverted fucks who wanted him when he was a teenager, but certainly now—some guy, maybe middle aged, who made his money and wanted someone to spend it on. Ian could live in some big mansion and go on vacation whenever he wanted and not run himself ragged working sixty hours a week. Ian’s always known how to fit in with rich people; he knows which forks to use when there are a billion on the table and how to laugh at jokes about stocks and shit like that. He deserves someone with a vacation house in fucking Aspen or somewhere else Mickey can’t even find on a map. He deserves someone who can afford all the newest medical trials, even the ones insurance won’t cover, and deserves someone who could keep a doctor on call all the time in case new meds don’t work.

Instead, he gets up in the middle of the night to deal with Mickey’s asshole drug-dealing brother and then goes off to his fucking underpaid, overworked job and comes home to whatever shitty meal Mickey threw together last minute. Mickey wants to take him to fancy restaurants and whisk him off to ski vacations or what the fuck ever he deserves, but between bailing out various family members, owning a small business that barely stays in the black, and a teenager, there’s not a lot of money left over for shit like that.

There’s also the fact that Mickey doesn’t fit in those kinds of places. Mickey gets followed around in every store he goes in because they look at him and know he’s the type to steal shit. He fumbles through ordering meals even at the fucking food carts and if he tried to ski he’d probably die. Even if they had the money, Mickey wouldn’t be able to do it.

He feels guilty about it sometimes. Ian deserves more. He deserves the dog with the sweater and the fancy shit and the picnics on sunny days. He deserves fucking chocolates and a guy who knows what the hell a caprese salad is. He deserves some penthouse with a doorman and no drunk people fucking in the alley outside his window.

But this is what they have. This is what Mickey can give him—what they’ve built together. And Mickey knows Ian’s happy. Ian likes fancy hotels and restaurants and he’d probably eat snails if the opportunity arose. But Ian also likes bar fights and drunk fucking in alleys and nachos at a baseball game. And most of all, Ian loves Mickey. He loves their family and their life. So Mickey tells the part of his brain reminding him of Ian drinking wine at some fancy North Side bar with _Ned_ to shut the fuck up and goes to make sure Yevgeny’s up for school.

“What happened to Colin?” Yevgeny asks interestedly as he packs his lunch.

“He hit every branch of the fucking stupid tree when he was born is what happened to Colin,” Mickey mutters darkly. Yevgeny raises his eyebrows and Mickey says, “He sold drugs to someone who didn’t pay him back and his distributer wasn’t happy about it.”

Yevgeny looks up from the fucking fourth sandwich he’s shoving into one of those weird reusable bags Ian makes them buy because they’re better for the environment. “For real?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “That’s why you always get some insurance money first. At least half.”

Yevgeny laughs. “No, Dad, you’re supposed to say that’s why you don’t sell drugs.”

“Fuck. Right. You know that’s what I meant.”

“That sounds like a good business strategy, though,” Yevgeny says. He has this certain tone he uses when he’s praising Mickey. It’s encouraging but kind of condescending. The condescending part might just be because he’s a teenager, or it could be because he’s been smarter than Mickey since he was like nine. Mickey wonders if he should be embarrassed his kid knows he has to encourage Mickey, but whatever.

Mickey snorts. “Yeah, thanks, smartass. I was the best drug dealer in the neighborhood before I left my empire behind to make sure I’m around to buy you shitty off-brand chips.” It’s not entirely true, but Yevgeny doesn’t need to know that.

Yevgeny toasts him with a bag of those shitty off-brand chips. “Thanks, Dad.”

“The fuck is all this?” Mickey asks. “I know you’re a growing kid or whatever, but holy hell.”

Yevgeny’s hands still. “I don’t have to take it all.”

Now Mickey just feels like an asshole. This is why he needs to sleep more. First he runs his mouth about dealing and now he’s making the kid feel bad for eating. Mickey remembers being constantly starving when he was Yevgeny’s age, but he didn’t know if that was normal or just because he was never getting enough to eat. The kid’s got swim practice after school, too, so of course he’d need extra food. Mickey’s just an idiot.

“You can eat as much as you want,” Mickey tells him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not all for me,” Yevgeny admits.

“You got another girlfriend or something?” Mickey asks. Yevgeny’s been something of a serial monogamist through high school. He doesn’t date any of the girls for very long—his longest was four months or something, which Mickey supposes might be kind of long for high school—but he’s always dating someone. Mickey has no idea if the kid’s banging any of these girls, and he doesn’t _want_ to know. Yevgeny knows where babies and diseases come from, and Mickey leaves a box of condoms in the kid’s room every once in a while, and he figures if Yevgeny wants to talk about it, he will.

Yevgeny’s real fucking popular with the girls at that school. He’s got a fucking horde of them who follow him around with heart eyes. Things were dicey for a month or two his freshman year, after he told some girl to fuck off and all that shit went down, but it didn’t take long for him to fix that.

From what Mickey’s heard at various school functions, Yevgeny’s got a reputation for being a real gentleman. Girls like going out with him because he takes them somewhere that seems kind of dangerous to their rich North Side asses but he protects them and isn’t an asshole. It makes Mickey pretty proud. He doesn’t think he can take much credit for that—that’s got to be Ian and Svetlana’s influence more than his, for sure—but he still likes that the girls at school know they can go out with Yevgeny Milkovich and he won’t give them any trouble.

He’s also heard a few girls sighing over Yevgeny’s blue eyes, and that _is_ thanks to Mickey, so he’ll take that win.

“No,” Yevgeny says, focusing very hard on twisting the tie thing around the bread. “My friend’s—well, he’s having some family stuff. So I just…I wanted to make sure he got something to eat.”

Mickey feels like he’s going to cry. Who the fuck is this kid? Where the fuck did he come from? Mickey has no idea how anyone with his DNA could be so fucking _thoughtful_. Like, this kid is related to _Terry Milkovich_ and here he is, taking food to someone else.

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey manages to say, throat feeling tight.

Yevgeny looks up at him, lips pressed down to hold back a smile. “Dad, are you crying about me being a good kid who helps people again?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbles, so Yevgeny starts laughing.

Svetlana comes out and Mickey hands her a cup of coffee. “Is that brother on couch?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I gotta deal with him. I’m gonna come in later.”

She nods. “He has people following him?”

“No, they sent their message,” Mickey assures her. “He’s not _that_ stupid. If he led anyone here he knows I’d kill him myself.”

“Dad!” Yevgeny protests. He’s always been real sensitive to them talking about killing people. That’s probably a good thing. Mickey shrugs.

“You’re gonna be late,” Mickey tells him.

“My perfect attendance!” Yevgeny yelps. He’s trying really hard to get some perfect attendance certificate this year. Mickey’s pretty sure when he was in school, his teachers would’ve been happier to give him a certificate for _not_ showing up. Except he wouldn’t have shown up to get it.

Svetlana raises her eyebrows over her coffee cup. “What will you do with brother?”

Mickey groans. “I don’t fucking know. Try to get him to quit selling again, I guess.”

Svetlana taps her fingers on the counter for a second. “Maybe he says no.”

Mickey sighs. “You beating around the bush for some reason? The fuck are you saying?”

“I do not want that around my Yevgeny.”

“I know that,” Mickey snaps. “Why do you think I kicked his ass to the curb at the garage?”

“He keeps coming back like this.”

“I’m handling it,” Mickey says, teeth clenched. “He’s my fucking brother.”

Svetlana purses her lips. “Did not matter to him when father was trying to kill you.”

“What do you want me to do?” Mickey demands. “You think I should’ve just left him on the doorstep to fucking freeze to death?”

Svetlana sighs loudly. “No.” He raises his eyebrows at her when she doesn’t go on. She squeezes his arm, almost too hard. “You are good brother,” she says softly. “He is not. Do not let him break your heart.”

“My heart’s got nothing to do with this,” Mickey says gruffly. Svetlana kind of rolls her eyes at him, because she knows he’s full of shit, but she doesn’t contradict him.

She leaves soon after, and Mickey stands in the empty kitchen, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now. He thinks about calling Mandy, telling her it’s her turn to come look after their asshole brother, but he knows he won’t do that. Mandy’s put up with more than enough shit from their family. Last time she came to visit, she let Mickey invite Iggy and Colin over one night for dinner, but she hasn’t exactly been seeking them out on her own. He’d make Iggy come do it, but Iggy’s more likely to get sucked back in by Colin and Mickey doesn’t want to deal with two of them being idiots.

“Ay, wake up,” Mickey says, jostling Colin’s leg.

“Fuck off,” Colin groans.

“Man, I’m not fucking kidding,” Mickey snaps. “Get the fuck up.”

Colin gives him an annoyed little scoff, but he sits up. His face looks like shit in the morning light; he’s bruised all over and there’s still some blood in his hairline. “What?” He growls.

“We gotta fucking figure this out,” Mickey says. “How much cash you out?”

“Ten Gs,” Colin says. “You gonna come help me collect?”

“No, I’m fucking not,” Mickey says disdainfully. “I’m straight now.”

“You’re married to a dude.”

Mickey can’t help but laugh a tiny bit at that, even though Colin’s genuinely confused and not just making a joke. “Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says. “I mean in terms of work and crime and all that shit.” He blows out a breath, aggravated. “How do you lose ten thousand dollars? That is so much fucking coke. You didn’t get _any_ insurance?”

“I took the dude’s car.”

Mickey perks up. “Did you give that to your distributor?”

“No,” Colin admits. “I didn’t know if it was worth enough.”

“Where is it?”

“Parked it down the block. You chop it for me?”

“No,” Mickey says, annoyed again. “I don’t do that shit. All my fucking mechanics are on parole right now except Igs. I’m not getting any of ‘em in trouble.”

Colin rolls his eyes. “You’re a fucking square.”

“Oh, no, I’ll never get over it,” Mickey says sarcastically. “Come show me this car.”

Colin’s limping a little, which softens Mickey’s heart a tiny fraction. Getting the shit beat out of you like that isn’t fun. He’s going to be sore for days. Then again, it’s his own damn fault, so maybe Mickey shouldn’t feel bad for him.

“You don’t got anyone watching your back?” Mickey asks. They always ran in packs, back when they were all running drugs and guns together. That was something valuable Terry taught them—don’t do shit alone.

Colin shrugs. “Nah. You and Igs are out now.”

That almost makes Mickey feel guilty. “What about Joey and Jamie?”

Colin shrugs again. “Well…” He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t help unless I told ‘em where you live.”

Mickey’s heart stops. “What?”

“I didn’t tell,” Colin promises. “I like your kid.”

“They want to go after him?” Mickey demands, voice getting high.

“No, not if he’s not a fairy. Just you and Gallagher,” Colin says. “But it would make your kid real sad if something happened to you guys. And Gallagher always gives me stitches when I need them. Plus I don’t really want them to kill you.”

Mickey pushes a hand through his hair. “They’re not following you?”

“I know when someone’s following me,” Colin says, a little offended. Mickey nods absently. Lesson one in the Milkovich house was learning if someone was watching or following you. It was usually Terry.

“They’re still that fucking mad?” Mickey asks. “Jesus, can’t they get over it?”

“They said Dad wouldn’t want them to leave you alive.”

“Yeah, well, not like they’re wrong,” Mickey mutters.

“But Dad’s dead,” Colin says. “And you don’t knock your kid around like Dad did to us. I think that’s cool. Iggy’s trying it with his kid, too.” Colin shrugs. “Maybe being a fag’s good for you.”

He was locked up when everyone found out about Ian and Mickey—when Mickey _screamed_ to everyone about him and Ian—and that summer they all lived in the house, so Mickey was never sure what to expect from him on that front. Iggy didn’t really care, because Iggy never cares about anything, and Mickey always figured Colin wouldn’t have the braincells to have much of an opinion either way if Terry weren’t giving him one. But he’s surprising Mickey right now.

Mickey’s touched, honestly. “It is good for me,” Mickey says, though he kind of means more the fact that he’s letting himself be happy with it. It’s not like Mickey got a choice on being gay.

“I won’t tell ‘em,” Colin promises. “Don’t worry.”

Mickey almost hugs him, but he stops himself. He doesn’t do that with his brothers. Maybe he should, honestly. When was the last time someone gave Colin a hug? Probably never. But Mickey can’t do that. It’s just not something they’ve ever done, and he’s pretty sure Colin wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Thanks,” He grits out, not making eye contact.

“Whatever,” Colin says. There’s an awkward pause until Colin points to the car. “That one.”

Mickey makes a face. It’s not a beater or anything, but it’s probably not worth $10k. Mickey walks around, looking at the bumpers and tires. “I mean, I can’t know for sure without checking under the hood,” Mickey says. “But if you got someone who’ll help you out, maybe you can get 7 or 8 out of it.”

Colin sighs. “Yeah.”

“I can help,” Mickey says. “Some. I mean, not two grand. But I can put some in.”

“Maybe Iggy can kick some in,” Colin says.

“I’m not paying him that much,” Mickey admits. “But we can see.”

“What if…” Colin stops. Mickey squints over at him. Colin shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders.

“What?” Mickey asks.

“Maybe I can come back to work for you,” Colin says.

Mickey crosses his arms. “My rules ain’t changing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Colin says. He shrugs. “I don’t got anyone watching my back and I’m fucking tired of getting the shit beat out of me, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Mickey parrots. He remembers that feeling. He was in prison when he hit that point, but he figures it’s a good thing Colin can realize it while he can actually change it. Mickey sighs a little. It’s not like he has unlimited money to pay people. They barely turn a profit as it is, and Mickey usually holds a spot open for Liam so he can work when he’s home for the summer. But Liam can help in the office, doing books with Svetlana, and if they do that contract with Ian’s company they’ll need more manpower.

“And my girl…” Colin shrugs. “Knocked her up. Gotta get straight.”

“Fuck, for real?” Mickey asks. “Gonna have a kid?”

“Yeah.” Colin ducks his head kind of shyly. “A girl. In like four months.”

“Holy shit,” Mickey says. “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks,” Colin says. “But I don’t really want a baby at the house if guys are gonna come beat the shit out of me at night.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, shaking his head a little. He can’t believe Colin had the presence of mind to think about that. “Alright, I can find something for you. But you gotta follow the rules this time, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Colin says. “I will.” After a second, he says, “Do I get three new strikes, though? Or just the one I had left?”

Mickey huffs. “I’ll give you three again.”

“Oh, good,” Colin sighs in relief. “We both know I’m gonna fuck this up.”

“You better fucking not,” Mickey counters. “Getting real sick of this shit, Colin. Stop making hamburger outta your face and showing up for stitches in the middle of the night, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Colin says. He shoots Mickey a smile. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“Alright,” Mickey says. “Come on, let’s go back. It’s fucking cold out here. I got a card for a guy who might be able to help you.”

 

Yevgeny’s got some friend over to work on a school project, and he gives Mickey kind of a significant look when they come in. Mickey shrugs and raises his eyebrows, because he’s not a goddamn mind reader. Yevgeny huffs a little, but they traipse off to his room, and then a few seconds later Mickey gets a text from the kid.

 _He’s the family one from the other day_.

Mickey has to think for a second, but then he remembers Yevgeny taking extra food. _Ok,_ he sends back. He’s not really sure why Yevgeny’s telling him that.

_Can you make him some food?????_

Mickey rolls his eyes at the number of question marks. Yevgeny spends too much time with Debbie. He’s so fucking dramatic. But it’s not like Mickey’s heart doesn’t go out to the kid, so he calls down the hallway, “Hey, you guys want something to eat?”

“Yeah!” Yevgeny calls back. “Pizza bagels?”

Mickey laughs a little, because pizza bagels always make him think of Ian and Mandy, but he yells back, “Okay, they’ll be done in like half an hour. Come out when you hear the timer ‘cause I’m not your fucking maid.”

“Okay! Thanks, Dad!”

He gets the pizza bagels going and sends a picture to Mandy. Svetlana’s on a date with some mystery guy—the fourth date, and she hasn’t even fucked him yet because she’s decided he has to work for it or some shit—and Ian’s still at work, so Mickey’s on his own. He sits at the kitchen table with his glasses and a printed copy of the schedule of the mechanics at the garage to see if there’s somewhere he can fit Colin.

He’s got a question mark next to Greg, because he has a piss test with Carl next week and if he fails he’s back in the joint. It’s not like Mickey _wants_ Greg to fail, but it’ll solve some problems for him if he does. He feels a little guilty thinking it, because he shouldn’t be hoping anyone breaks parole.

The oven timer makes him jump about a foot in the air, just in time for Ian to come in the front door and see him. Ian cracks a grin, but he looks fucking bushed. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and his hair’s all messed up like he’s been grabbing at it in frustration.

“Hey,” Mickey says, concerned. “Bad day?”

Ian’s sigh turns into a yawn halfway. “Kinda.”

Mickey gets up for a kiss, then just holds onto Ian for a second. Ian rests most of his weight on Mickey and makes this little noise he only makes when he’s exhausted. Mickey’s not sure why he’s so tired; Colin’s interruption was nearly a month ago now, and he’s been sleeping every night since then. As far as Mickey knows, anyway. Mickey’s a light sleeper, but if Ian woke up but stayed in bed Mickey might not know about it.

“You sleeping okay?” Mickey asks, stroking the back of Ian’s neck.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Ian says. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

Mickey tries not to gulp. Ian being tired always sets off warning bells in his head. All he can see is a lump in the bed, Ian unmoving for weeks, tears on both their pillows.

“You think it’s—” Mickey starts, but he gets cut off.

“Um, can you guys hug like an inch to the other side?” Yevgeny asks. They’re blocking the way into the kitchen. Mickey forgot the timer was going off. He pulls Ian over. Yevgeny gives them a curious, slightly concerned look, but Mickey just shakes his head. Whatever this is, it’s nothing the kid needs to worry about.

“Hi,” Ian says, looking at Yevgeny’s friend. Mickey can’t remember his name.

“Ian, this is Jordan,” Yevgeny says. “Jordan, this is my stepdad, Ian.”

“Hi,” Jordan says. He mostly stares down at his feet. Mickey figures if the kid’s got shitty family stuff going on he’s probably not feeling his best. Ian’s sort of squinting at him, so Mickey gives him a squeeze and raises his eyebrows to say he’ll fill Ian in a little later. Ian nods and then watches interestedly as Yevgeny pulls the pan out of the oven.

“Are those pizza bagels?” He asks.

Mickey grins at him. “Only the best for you.”

Ian laughs and dips in for a kiss. “What a romantic you are. Time to turn on a Seagal movie?”

“Mmm, my lucky night, huh?”

“You know what I never asked you?” Ian says. “You liked his ponytail, right? Well, back then, I remember Kev—”

“Oh, my God, shut the _fuck_ up,” Mickey cuts him off. “No, don’t even go there.”

“I’m just saying!” Ian defends himself.

“Don’t just say,” Mickey says. From the corner of his eye, he can see Yevgeny’s friend hunching in on himself. He’s flinching every time Mickey talks. When Ian starts laughing, he looks kind of surprised, but he loosens up a little. Mickey bites his lip. That’s not a good sign.

“It’d be okay,” Ian says, oblivious to all this. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“Hold you against me,” Mickey says nonsensically.

Ian laughs again. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Please stop,” Yevgeny says from the oven. “We have a _guest_.” He turns to his friend and says, “Sorry. They’re so gross.”

“Um, it’s okay,” Jordan says.

“So, Jordan, are you in Yev’s class?” Ian asks.

“No, I’m a sophomore,” Jordan says.

“He’s in the LGBT club with me,” Yevgeny supplies.

“You’re the most normal looking one I’ve seen,” Mickey says. “Who was that kid with the rainbow hair?”

“Owen,” Yevgeny says.

“Wasn’t it a mohawk too?” Ian asks. He gives Mickey a little up-and-down. “You’d look good with a mohawk.”

“Yeah, I look good with anything,” Mickey blusters. Ian laughs a little, but he’s smirking like he agrees.

“Okay, we’re gonna go study,” Yevgeny says. “I’m helping Jordan do a report on the Great Gatsby.”

“You just give him your old one?” Mickey asks.

“No!” Yevgeny sounds all scandalized. “That’s cheating. No college wants a cheater.”

“Well, lots of colleges wanted Lip,” Ian says under his breath. Louder, he says, “That’s right, Yev, you do it the right way.”

Yevgeny rolls his eyes. He looks at Jordan and says, “Can you believe my parents make fun of me for being good? Ridiculous.”

Ian and Mickey both laugh at him as he leads Jordan back down the hall. Ian waits a beat, and then he says quietly, “What’s up with that kid?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says. “Something, for sure. Yevgeny’s been taking a shit-ton of extra food to school because he said there’s something going on with that kid’s family.”

“Oh, that’s where all the bread went,” Ian says. “I bought a loaf like three days ago.”

“I got more today,” Mickey assures him. “You see that kid flinch when I talked?”

Ian looks toward the hallway. “I didn’t notice,” he says. He sighs. “Shit, that can’t be anything good.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mickey says. “I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t like swearing.”

“Wait,” Ian says. “Oh, fuck, I think that might be Yev’s super religious friend.”

“In the gay club?” Mickey asks skeptically.

“That’s a thing now,” Ian says. “Churches wanting us gays to come.”

“No church I know wants gays to come _together_ ,” Mickey jokes. Ian snorts.

“No, they do now. Some, anyway. There are still churches who don’t, but now a lot of them brag about how gay-friendly they are. Like you can get married at their church and stuff.”

“So he’s okay with gays but thinks my mouth is too dirty?” Mickey asks. “Huh.”

“Your mouth _is_ dirty,” Ian says, wiggling his eyebrows in the stupidest way. Mickey laughs at him and pushes his face away. They horse around a little, but after a few minutes he makes Ian sit down and eat something.

“So what’s up with work?” Mickey asks. “You look like you haven’t slept in four days.”

Ian sighs and rubs his eyes again. “Got called out to deal with a passed out guy in a gutter. Fucking Frank again.”

“Ah, fuck,” Mickey says. It happens from time to time; Frank passes out in random places all the time, but most people around here don’t bother calling an ambulance for him unless he’s in really bad shape. It’s been happening more and more often lately; this is the fourth time in three months. “You okay?”

Ian shrugs. “Fine.” He chews silently for a second, then he says, “He called me Clayton.”

“Your middle name—isn’t that his brother?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah,” Ian says. “My actual father.”

Mickey digests that. “Shit. He didn’t recognize you?”

“His brain’s fucked,” Ian says. Then he amends, “I mean, fucked worse now. It’s pretty much always been fucked.”

Mickey watches him for a second. “Think he’s gonna die soon?” He’s not sure if he needs to ask that gently. Ian won’t be crying over Frank or anything like that, but Mickey learned the hard way how complicated it is when your shitty father dies.

“I guess,” Ian mutters. “But he never seems to actually kick it.” He leans his head on his hand like it’s too heavy for his neck. Mickey swallows hard. He tries not to jump to worst-case scenarios, but that’s kind of his thing. It’s always where his mind goes. He reminds himself Ian’s allowed to be tired, too, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. Ian would tell him if it did. Mickey ignores the little voice in the back of his head that says Ian doesn’t want to Mickey about his meds anymore since Mickey wasn’t on board with the new ones. It’s been months since their talk, and Ian hasn’t brought up the medical trial again.

Mickey rubs Ian’s back. “Want to go to bed early?”

Ian nods. “I’m just tired.”

Mickey knocks on Yevgeny’s door and pokes his head in. “Me and Ian are going to bed soon,” he says. “You good for the night?”

“We’re good,” Yevgeny promises. “Is it cool if Jordan sleeps over?”

Mickey shrugs. “His parents cool with it?”

Jordan flinches. Yevgeny blinks, and then he takes a really deep breath and chirps out, “Yeah! They are. It’s fine. They said it was okay! All cool.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Kid, you been a shitty liar since you learned to talk. I can’t say yes if they’re not cool with it.”

“I can go,” Jordan mumbles, not looking up from his knees. Yevgeny gives Mickey a desperate look, and Mickey’s stomach starts to sink.

“Something going on?” He asks.

Yevgeny darts a look at Jordan, and then back up at Mickey. He nods minutely, but he doesn’t explain, and Mickey can see what’s happening here. Yevgeny knows what’s up with Jordan’s family, but Jordan doesn’t want Yevgeny telling Mickey. Mickey’s not offended or anything; this Jordan kid doesn’t know Mickey and has no reason to trust him, no matter how much Yevgeny probably talked him up. Yevgeny doesn’t want to break his word to his friend, but he wants to help the kid, and he knows Mickey can help with that.

Mickey sighs. “They at least know you’re safe somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Jordan says.

Mickey needs to ask some questions here, figure out why this skinny little kid needs to hide from his parents, but now’s not the time. Jordan won’t even look up, and he won’t let Yevgeny tell Mickey what’s going on. There’s no way he’s going to tell Mickey, not right now.

“Okay,” Mickey relents. “It’s alright.” He doesn’t add, _we’re gonna talk about this more_ , though he wants to. That’s not going to get this kid to trust him. Instead, he says, “I know what it’s like to need somewhere to hide out from shit that’s going down at home.”

Jordan looks up at that, eyes all big. “I told him,” Yevgeny says. “I mean, I didn’t tell him _everything_ ,” he rushes to promise, because Ian’s real big on hammering home the idea that you don’t tell other people’s stories without their permission. Mickey’s not so sure he’d care in this case, but he’s touched Yevgeny wants to guard Mickey’s secrets.

“Thanks,” Mickey says, because he’s probably supposed to say thanks for that kind of thing. “I won’t be weird if you lock the door,” he adds, because sleeping behind a locked door would’ve felt fucking amazing when he was trying to get away from his dad. “Just don’t stay up too late, okay? Your fucking English teacher rides my ass when you’re tired in class. And not the way I like.”

“Okay,” Yevgeny says. Mickey nods at them and heads back down the hall, but he doesn’t make it all the way to his and Ian’s room before Yevgeny’s throwing his arms around him from behind. Yevgeny’s lucky Mickey’s not all crazy and wound up in his own house anymore, because there was a time when getting tackled like that would’ve set off Mickey’s fight instincts, even if it was some shrimpy teenager.

“Jesus,” Mickey says.

“Thanks, Dad,” Yevgeny says. “Jordan really needs—well, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I can tell he needs some help. It’s cool. We’re gonna have to talk about it more, though. You know I’m not just letting this slide and then he’s gonna go home all hunky dory.”

“I know,” Yevgeny sighs. “But thanks for not doing it tonight. And not getting mad that I won’t tell you.”

Mickey turns around to hug the kid for real. “Hey, it’s good he can trust you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Mickey shakes his head at Ian once he gets back to their room. “Shit going down with that kid,” he says. “Parent shit. He’s staying here and not telling his parents where he is.”

Ian sits up. “What’s going on? His parents knock him around?”

Mickey waves a hand. “They’re not talking tonight. Let him sleep easy for a night, get a few meals. We’ll figure it out.”

Ian smiles at him in that way that means he’s proud. It kind of makes Mickey blush, even after all these years. He handles pride from Ian best, of course, but that still doesn’t mean he handles it _well_.

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says fondly. “What a good man you are.”

“What the fuck ever,” Mickey huffs. “I’m pretty sure it’s normal to not want to throw a teenager back to a shitty home.”

Ian gives him a look. “You and I both know way too many people wouldn’t do shit.”

Mickey has to concede that point. It’s not like it was a secret that his dad was fucking awful, but no one ever did anything about it. Mickey’s not sure he would’ve let anyone do anything back then, truth be told. He wouldn’t even let Ian talk about his dad back then. He climbs into bed beside Ian and tugs at Ian’s arm until he obligingly rolls over to rest his head on Mickey’s chest. He runs his fingers through Ian’s hair, hoping to lull him to sleep easily.

“Sure you’re okay?” Mickey asks softly.

Ian sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Frank or because…something else?”

Ian moves up so they can look at each other. “Kind of both.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian swallows hard. “I don’t want to lose my fucking mind, Mick. I don’t want to end up like Frank when I did everything I was supposed to do. He brought it on himself but I—I mean, I don’t get a choice. It’s just gonna happen to me because I got this shitty brain.”

He looks desperate, and Mickey can picture him, looking down at Frank slurring out someone else’s name at him, and seeing his future. Monica’s usually Ian’s guideline for this kind of thing, but she didn’t live long enough for them to find out if her brain went to shit like that. Ian’s scared.

Mickey moves in closer, presses their foreheads together. Ian’s eyes slide closed and his breath hitches. Mickey puts his hand on Ian’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. “Alright. Let’s do it, then. Do the trial for the new meds.”

“You sure?” Ian checks. “I know I’ve been stable a long time. I could be taking myself right to the edge again.” Mickey can tell Ian’s thinking he doesn’t have a right to do that to them, to potentially blow up their routine and their life. Like he doesn’t have the right to ask for more with his own fucking medication because it scares Mickey. Now Mickey’s mad at himself for making Ian think that.

Mickey kisses him. “Yeah, well,” he says. “I’ll hold onto you so you don’t fall off.”

Ian laughs a little, despite the tears in his eyes. “That’s really cheesy.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says with a shrug. “Still true, though.”

“We should talk it over with Yev and Lana, though,” Ian says. “I just wanted to make sure you and me were on the same page first.”

Mickey leans in and kisses him again. “I know,” he says, heart feeling full. “Thanks.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Ian corrects. “You’re on my team, huh?”

“Always,” Mickey promises. Ian smiles at him and presses their foreheads together again. Mickey’s still scared. The last time Ian wasn’t stable…well, it certainly didn’t go very well for Mickey. But he pushes that fear down. Things are different now. _They’re_ different. They’re older, and they’re certainly stronger than they’ve ever been.

He runs a hand through Ian’s hair, and he tells himself everything will be fine.

 

“So…the new meds might not even work?” Yevgeny asks, brow furrowed. They’re all sitting around the table for a family dinner and discussion.

“There’s a chance,” Ian admits.

“But there’s a chance they’ll be better,” Mickey jumps in. He’s not exactly jazzed about this, all truth told, but he can see Ian wavering. Mickey reminds himself of Ian crying over turning out like Frank and feels his resolve strengthen again.

“If new pills do not work,” Svetlana starts slowly, shooting Mickey a look.

“I’m going to be meeting with the doctors in charge every week,” Ian assures her. “If I get manic and it seems like I’m getting dangerous, they’ll sedate me, and if I get really low, they can add an extra antidepressant.” Softer, he adds, “I’m not going to hurt anyone this time.”

“You’d never hurt anyone,” Yevgeny says loyally.

“Well, I almost hurt you,” Ian points out honestly. “When you were a baby.”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says. “But I’m not a baby anymore. I don’t break as easily.”

Mickey’s more concerned about Ian breaking the kid’s heart, honestly, given how things can go when he’s manic, but he’s not saying shit. Even if Ian does go fucking around, they won’t need to tell the kid about it.

And Ian’s not going to do that. He _isn’t_.

“It won’t be like last time,” Mickey says to Svetlana. He meets her eyes steadily. She’s biting her lip worriedly.

“It won’t,” Ian promises. “We know what it is this time, and we know what to look out for and what to do. I’m not—I won’t be in denial this time. I’m not trying to hide it or get away from my meds or anything like that, okay? I just want—I need to try this.”

Mickey squeezes his hand. Svetlana narrows her eyes while she looks at Ian for a second. “Will help with other problems?” She asks.

“That’s the goal,” Ian says. “Supposed to be less issues with weight gain and se—um, other stuff,” Ian says, cutting off before he talks about _sexual problems_ in front of the kid. “But it’s also supposed to help mitigate the memory loss and confusion that can happen as bipolar patients age.”

He’s slipped into his clinical work voice. _Bipolar patients_. Like that’s just some random group of people instead of him. Mickey knows he’s doing it to stay calm, but it still hits him in the chest.

Svetlana purses her lips. Mickey can tell the detached work voice got to her, too. She nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Ian asks.

“I am in,” she says, which makes Mickey laugh a little because he’s not sure he’s ever heard her use that phrase. She reaches across the table and covers Ian’s hand with her own. “For you, we do it.”

Ian ducks his head, biting at his lip. He nods. “Thanks.”

“I don’t know what to look out for,” Yevgeny points out.

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Mickey says. “I’m gonna be taking care of him and keeping an eye out.”

“But _I_ need to know,” Yevgeny says stubbornly. “I need to help, too.” He juts his chin out. “We’re all a family, Dad. Not just you two.”

Mickey nods, a little ashamed. It’s just such an instinct for him to guard Ian and snap at everyone else to back off. But the kid’s right—that’s not Mickey’s place. Never was, in reality.

“Well,” Ian says. “If I’m gonna go manic, it’ll be things like…um, talking faster than normal. Losing my train of thought because I get distracted by new thoughts. Getting really fixated on weird things that don’t totally make sense. Not sleeping much, but Dad’s going to be the one to notice that. And Dad’ll notice…um, some other things,” Ian says with a little laugh, and Mickey hears Fiona’s voice say _hypersexuality_ and thinks of Ian wanting to go at it fifty times a day, finding other guys to fuck. Ian obviously doesn’t really want Yevgeny thinking about that part. “Getting impulsive and wanting to be really spontaneous all of a sudden.”

Yevgeny’s nodding and writing all this down. He’s _taking notes_ , his neat handwriting filling up the page. Mickey doesn’t know why he can’t look away from that.

“And if I’m low…” Ian sighs. “Well, you’ll know that one.”

“It’ll be worse than you’re used to,” Mickey tells Yevgeny. “If the meds aren’t working. You’ve seen him have swings.”

“Yeah, but I mostly only know when he’s low,” Yevgeny says. “I’ve never noticed any of these manic symptoms.”

 _Lucky you_ , Mickey thinks, because no matter how many times the manic phases end quickly and prove the meds are working, Mickey’s heart still seizes up with fear every time.

“And when I first switch meds, I’m going to be a zombie,” Ian says. “It takes a week or two for them to level out. It’s going to kinda seem like I’m low at first just while the meds kick in.’

Yevgeny pauses, his pen hovering over the paper. “But that’s normal?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “It fucking sucks, but it is normal.”

Yevgeny’s got a big wrinkle between his eyebrows. “It’s always like that?” He asks. “You’ve been taking meds for a long time. The science hasn’t gotten any better?”

Ian laughs a little. “Here’s something a doctor told me once,” he says. “Science can do a hell of a lot, but the brain’s gonna do what the brain’s gonna do. All we can do is work with the reactions we get.”

“But that’s bullshit,” Yevgeny insists hotly. Mickey remembers this feeling distinctly; barely older than the kid is now, sitting there listening to some lady tell Ian he’d have to deal with this his whole life. The way his breath stuttered away when she talked about that fucking suicide list.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. God, looking at Yevgeny hearing all this reminds him how fucking _young_ Ian was when this started. He thinks of someone telling Yevgeny he could have suicidal spells for the next fifty years and his heart seizes up. “And the medication doesn’t even fucking stop the swings from happening. You’d think they’d hurry the fuck up and figure it out.”

Ian shrugs. “You guys both still have PTSD stuff,” he points out.

“Not me,” Svetlana protests.

“Mama, you still sleep with a bat by your bed,” Yevgeny reminds her.

“Is not PTSD,” she says. “Is having brains.”

Yevgeny makes this face that Mickey fucking hates when it’s directed at him—eyebrows raised and mouth pulled in tight, like he thinks you’re being real stupid and don’t realize it. It’s condescending as fuck. Funny when it’s about someone else, though.

“But the new meds might help more,” Ian says. “That’s the point.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah. That’s part of why he’s trying the new ones.”

“It’s gonna be really rough in the beginning,” Ian says softly. “I might…” He clears his throat. “I might say some scary shit. I hope I won’t. But the zombie part is so awful. I know it’ll go away, and I know it’s worth it, but I might end up saying some stuff about—well.” He stops before he tells the kid he might talk about offing himself. Yevgeny’s smart, though, and his eyes go wide.

“But you’re not going to hurt yourself, right?” He asks worriedly.

“No, he fucking won’t,” Mickey says. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“We will help,” Svetlana adds.

“I can’t promise I won’t fight you on it,” Ian says, voice getting a little wobbly now. “But…but no matter what I say or how I act, I love you, okay? It might seem like I don’t. But I do. I always will. _Always_.”

Yevgeny has tears in his eyes now. He darts a look at Mickey. “Is this really worth it?”

“Yes,” Mickey says before Ian can answer. He still has his own doubts, but no one else gets to hear those. They made their decision. So now he’s Ian’s battering ram through this.

Ian squeezes Mickey’s knee under the table. “I hope so,” he says.

“You talk to your siblings?” Mickey asks.

Ian nods. “Fiona was…” He smiles sadly and shrugs.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He can imagine. They all went through this with Ian multiple times, the cycle between leveling out his meds and going off them, again and again. Plus they’ve got all those Monica memories to deal with, too. He can’t imagine any of them were excited about this.

“When does it start?” Yevgeny asks.

“Two weeks,” Ian says. “I’m going to take some time off work, just until I get through the blank phase. Then I might take more time if I need it.”

“That’s so soon,” Yevgeny mumbles. “Isn’t that just in time for Valentine’s Day?” He looks at Mickey like this’ll upset him.

Mickey laughs a little, even though he doesn’t feel like laughing. “I’ll get over it.” Yevgeny still looks pretty freaked out. Mickey doesn’t blame him. “It’s all gonna be fine,” Mickey says. Yevgeny looks up at him. He looks like that actually made him feel better. Because he trusts Mickey when Mickey says things will be okay. Mickey’s stomach twists a little. He hopes he didn’t just make a promise they won’t be able to keep.

 

After the fourth time he smacks his head on something, Mickey’s ready to call it a day. He wasn’t going to come into work at all for the two weeks or so Ian’s off work, but Ian not-so-delicately told him this morning he was annoying the shit out of Ian and needed to get out of the house. It stung a little, but Mickey’s trying to be reasonable. It’s been four days, and so far Ian’s just tired, mostly, waiting for the meds to adjust. He’s not really doing anything besides sleeping and sitting around. And he doesn’t need Mickey staring at him and watching his every move, no matter how badly Mickey _wants_ to keep doing that.

Liam’s home for some kind of midterm break, so he’s hanging out with Ian while Mickey tries to act like everything’s normal. He’s failing abysmally.

“Mickey!” Iggy yells. No matter how many times Mickey tells Iggy not to yell when customers are around, he never listens. Maybe he forgets; he was never the brightest bulb anyway, and all those years of drugs have not helped his short-term memory.

Mickey wipes off his hands and puts them directly onto his hips as he walks out to chew Iggy out for the millionth time. It’ll feel good to yell at someone. But Mickey makes himself count to ten. Just because he’s pissy and edgy doesn’t mean he should yell at Iggy. Even if Iggy _does_ make it really easy to target him.

“Iggy,” Mickey says, restraining himself. “The yelling.”

“Oh, yeah,” Iggy says. “Sorry. Um, Colin just called.”

“Don’t fucking tell me he’s not coming in today,” Mickey says. He really will lose it. There’s not a number high enough to count to that’ll stop Mickey from reaming him out.

“No, he’s coming,” Iggy promises. “But he said he’s bringing coffee. You drink coffee?”

Mickey snorts. “Yes, I drink coffee.” He’s begrudgingly grateful. He didn’t sleep very well, because he was keeping an eye on Ian. The more he thinks about it, the more annoying he realizes he was being. Ian had every right to snap out _Jesus, Mick, go the fuck to work_. “He bringing some for Svet and Fiona, too?” Mickey asks.

“How should I know?” Iggy asks.

“Well fucking text him,” Mickey demands. “You don’t bring it for some people and not everyone. That’s shitty.”

“God, you got so many rules,” Iggy grumbles.

“That’s called basic courtesy, dipshit,” Mickey says. He blows out a breath, trying to get himself under control. He doesn’t apologize to Iggy, though. That’s not really something they do. Mickey goes into the office and there are two more customers in there. He sighs, trying to act normal, but he doesn’t want to deal with this today. He’s freaking out and shit’s piling up. His hands are starting to shake and counting isn’t working.

“Hey, Mickey, can I show you something in your office?” Fiona asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says distractedly, following her down the hall. “You get all these people set up?”

“We’re good,” she says. “You worry about your job and I’ll worry about mine.”

Mickey huffs. “I’m the fucking boss,” he points out. “Worrying about everyone’s job is my job.”

“Oh, so sorry, sir,” Fiona mocks him. Mickey rolls his eyes. He looks around in his office for something she’d want to show him. She waves a hand. “There’s not actually anything in here. Just wanted to get you away from the customers.”

“Oh,” Mickey says. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“You’re not doing so good, huh?”

Mickey doesn’t bother arguing. “ _He’s_ fine, though. Mostly. So I can just…deal with it.”

“I can’t believe you let him do this,” Fiona says. She doesn’t sound mad, mostly just disappointed. “I thought for sure you’d talk him out of it.”

Mickey just stares at her for a second. “It’s his fucking brain.”

“And it’s _our_ family!” She shoots back. “He could tank this life you guys have built. Just for a new drug that might not even work?”

Mickey takes a deep breath. Sure, he’s worried about that, too. But this is important to Ian. And she should know as well as he does there’s no changing Ian’s mind when he’s made it up. Better to get on his side and help than try to pull him back. In this case, Mickey’s pretty sure he could’ve put his foot down and Ian would’ve backed off, but they both would’ve felt shitty about it for the rest of their lives. And despite Ian saying Mickey gets a say in all this, too, Mickey’s not sure it should be his place to tell Ian how to handle his own disorder.

“He tell you about Frank?”

“What?” Fiona asks, taken aback. “What’s Frank got to do with this?”

“Ian’s gotten called out to deal with him a bunch lately. Last time, he called Ian Clayton. Didn’t even recognize who he was.” Mickey shrugs. “Frank fucked himself up that way. But Ian didn’t, and he could end up like that anyway. So he wants to try this and see if it helps.”

Fiona’s got tears in her eyes. “It might not work.”

“But it might,” Mickey says. “And Ian wants to try. If the meds don’t work, fine. He’ll go back to the old ones. He already knows that’s his plan B.”

“But how much can he fuck up before he goes back—”

“Nope,” Mickey cuts her off. He can’t take this. He has enough of those thoughts in his own head without Fiona adding to it, and he’s already decided he’s not thinking that way. Ian knows what he’s doing. They have to trust that. “No. He’s not seventeen anymore, Fiona. He’s thirty-five fucking years old. He knows he’s bipolar. He’s being careful. The doctors are keeping an eye on him. _I’m_ keeping an eye on him. The kid and Svet are in on it, too. This isn’t some spur-of-the-moment thing, okay? He’s been thinking it over for fucking months. And he decided it’s worth it to try. So we’re gonna shut the fuck up and support him. You got that?”

She rubs a hand under her nose. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right.” She sighs. “I guess it’s just hard for me to see him as a real grownup.”

Mickey laughs a little. “Yeah, I’m starting to understand that,” he says. “The kid’s practically an adult and I still think I gotta cut up his food for him.’

Fiona laughs too. “Well, sometimes you do. He eats too fast and chokes.”

“Mickey!” Iggy yells down the hall.

“Fucking hell,” Mickey growls, immediately on edge again. “With the fucking yelling. _Again._ ”

He storms out of his office, Fiona hot on his heels and saying shit like, “Mickey, there’s customers out there, don’t do anything stupid, Mickey, wait”, but she didn’t need to worry. Once they get out to the main waiting area, Mickey stops in his tracks.

Colin’s standing there with a drink holder full of coffee. And Mandy’s standing next to him. “I didn’t bring any for her,” Colin says. “I didn’t know she’d be here! This isn’t my fucking fault.”

“Hey,” Mandy says.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey asks.

Mandy shrugs. “Thought you guys could use some help at home right now.”

Mickey’s got tears in his eyes before she even finishes the sentence. “Thanks,” he chokes out. He opens his arms and Mandy comes up close and gives him a hug.

“How’s he doing?” She whispers.

“So far, so good,” he says. “I guess.”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. “How’re you doing?”

Mickey breathes out shakily. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” She pinches his arm. “I’m gonna head over there, okay? This place is closer to the bus station and I want your car.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Mickey says. “I can ride home with Svet.”

“He gonna be mad?” Mandy asks.

Mickey snorts. “He ever been mad to see you?”

Mandy smirks. “Nope.”

“Just…” Mickey bites his lip. “Look, I was driving him nuts this morning, so he doesn’t want me around today. But if something changes or anything—”

“I’ll call you,” Mandy promises. “Take it easy.”

“He’s never done that in his life,” Fiona mutters. Mickey would flip her off, but there’s an old lady waiting for her car to be done, so he doesn’t. He’s learned some self-restraint. A little, anyway.

“Mandy,” he calls out before she leaves.

“Oh, _you_ can yell,” Iggy mutters, and this time Mickey forgets self-restraint and flips his brother off. It’s who he is as a person, he figures.

“What?” Mandy asks, half-turning in the doorway to look back at him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mickey says. A few emotions pass over Mandy’s face. She settles for a soft smile and a middle finger of her own, and then she leaves.

 

Mickey pushes his bedroom door open cautiously. No telling how Ian’s going to react. If he’s here. Maybe he took off. Maybe Mandy didn’t call because she knew he’d freak out. Maybe—

Ian and Mandy are lying on the bed, Mandy’s head on Ian’s chest. They’re talking and laughing and something in Mickey’s chest loosens just a bit. It loosens further when Ian looks at him and cracks a smile, the first one Mickey’s seen in days.

“Hey, babe,” Ian says. Mickey rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest the pet name. Ian’s mostly just decided to ignore Mickey’s aversion to it and barrel on through in typical Ian Gallagher fashion.

“So Mandy gets to hang out and I don’t, huh?” Mickey asks without heat. He knows he can be a pain in the ass, and he stopped resenting Ian and Mandy’s relationship a fucking long time ago. Sometime between Ian bringing Mandy to his house after Kenyatta hit her the first time and Mandy being able to get Ian to speak a full sentence that first time he was low.

Ian snorts. “Mandy’s not trying to force-feed me every ten minutes.”

Mickey makes a face. “Yeah, fuck me for making sure you don’t die.”

“Pretty much,” Ian agrees easily. He holds out the arm Mandy’s not lying on. “Come on, get in here.”

Mickey huffs, because this is stupid, but he’s already unbuckling his pants. Mandy sits up a little. “Don’t take off your pants while I’m in here, you sicko.”

“I’m not getting fucking naked,” Mickey points out. “But I’m not wearing pants in my own bed, bitch.”

He ignores her and takes off his jeans before he crowds in close to Ian. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” Ian says. “Miss me?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

“Were you worrying all day?”

“Nah,” Mickey lies. Ian laughs at him a little. Mickey amends, “Not after I knew Mandy was here.”

“Aw,” Mandy says from the other side.

“How’s Liam?” Mickey asks.

“A bad actor,” Ian says with a little huff. “Tried to pretend he just wanted to hang out with me and not like he was here to babysit me.”

“I didn’t ask him to come over,” Mickey points out. “You know they all love you, man. They just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I know,” Ian says.

“What you guys do all day?” Mickey asks.

Ian sighs. “Nothing.” He hates days like this, days where he’s too drained to do anything. Honestly, Mickey’s almost grateful for Ian’s lows sometimes. They’re the only times the guy stops for ten seconds and takes a break.

Mickey smacks a kiss on Ian’s cheek. “That’s okay.” Mickey reaches over Ian and pokes Mandy in the face. “What’s Ryan doing while you’re here?”

Mickey actually likes the guy Mandy’s been dating for a few years now. He’s a nice dude, and he loves Mandy a lot. He had a fucking normal childhood in the suburbs and talks to his parents every Sunday on the phone. They love Mandy, too. Mickey thinks it’s good for her. And she told Ryan all the shit she’d been through, and he didn’t just not leave—he told her it wasn’t her fault, and then he asked where Terry was, like he was going to go fight him. He’s lucky Terry’s dead, in all honesty, because the guy probably weighs the same as Mandy and certainly doesn’t know how to fight, but the feeling behind it puts him in Mickey’s good graces.

Mandy’s face goes all weird when Mickey mentions her boyfriend. “He’s working.”

“What was that?” Ian asks.

“What?”

“Your face,” Mickey fills in. “Went all weird over Ryan.”

“No it didn’t,” Mandy protests.

“It did,” Ian says. “Mands, everything okay?”

Mandy doesn’t say anything for a minute. “I left.”

“You…left?” Mickey echoes.

“I didn’t tell him I was leaving,” Mandy explains quietly, avoiding eye contact. “I just…left.”

“Did he do something?” Mickey demands, all his good feelings about Ryan evaporating.

“No,” Mandy assures him. “Well, I mean…”

“The fuck did he do?” Ian asks.

Mandy bites her lip. “He proposed.”

Now Mickey can feel his own face doing something weird. “Marriage?” He checks, just to be totally sure.

Mandy snorts. “Yes.”

“You don’t want to marry him?” Ian asks.

“I…” Mandy shrugs, eyes filling up with tears, and Mickey feels his own eyes start to burn. He knows exactly what Mandy’s feeling right now. Just the idea of someone saying they want to stick around forever is so hard to swallow. It was a bit easier for Mickey, since Ian already _had_ been around so long. It’s probably especially hard for Mandy because Ryan’s so normal.

“Mandy,” Mickey says softly. He goes up to one elbow so he can look at her, if she wants to look over at him. “You deserve him.”

Mandy starts crying for real. He can probably count on both hands the number of times he’s seen actual tears roll down his sister’s cheeks. She doesn’t let anyone see her cry. “Doesn’t feel like I do,” she whispers.

“I know,” Mickey says. He clenches his hand on Ian’s shirt, making himself stop before he reaches for her. She’s touching Ian, and that’s probably all she can take right now. “God, Mandy, you know I know. But…Jesus, look at all the shit you’ve been through. About time life gave you a fucking good thing, right?”

“Why would he even want to marry me?” Mandy asks.

“Maybe because you’re gorgeous and funny and smart and loyal,” Ian suggests. “Mandy, come on. He loves you _so_ much.”

“Why do we need to get married?” Mandy asks. “Why not just keep living how we’re living?”

“He wants it on record,” Mickey says, thinking about when he was deciding whether or not to marry Ian. “He wants them to write it down in their little record book, you know? So in a hundred years someone can look at that shit and know he loved you.”

“I’m gonna fuck it up,” she groans.

“You could fuck it up if you don’t get married, too,” Ian points out. “He knows you’ve been through hell, Mands. He just wants to make the rest of your life better.”

All three of them are crying now, holding onto each other. The kid walks in and his eyes bug out of his head. “Mandy?” He says. “I didn’t even know you were here. Why are you all crying? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Mandy says. “I’m gonna get married.”

“Wow!” Yevgeny yells. “Mandy! Yay!”

Svetlana walks in behind him, eyebrows raised, and Mandy repeats, a little stronger now, “I’m getting married.”

Svetlana’s face goes all soft, and Mickey has one of those jolting realizations he gets from time to time that they’re a _family_. Svetlana’s happy for Mandy, too. And Svetlana, especially, knows how monumental this is for Mandy. She has a lot of the same issues Mandy does. Mickey’s glad he’s already crying so no one notices him start to cry some more.

“I swear, in a week, I’m going to bouncing off the walls about this,” Ian promises. It makes everyone laugh.

“I’m honored you’re fighting the fog to be this excited,” Mandy tells him. She smiles and hides her face in Ian’s chest. “I guess I should call Ryan and tell him we’re getting married.”

“Wait, what?” Yevgeny asks. “He doesn’t know?”

Mandy pushes off Ian to stand up. “Grownup shit can get complicated,” she says. “Especially when you’re fucked up like we are.”

“But you’re working through it,” Ian reminds her. “Like we are.”

Mandy smiles at him. She ducks her head and grabs her phone. “I’ll be back,” she says.

“Don’t take off without saying goodbye,” Mickey says. Mandy flips him off.

“I’d never do that to you guys.”

“Just to your future husband,” Ian cracks.

Mandy flips him off, too.

 

They have to go to some parents’ meeting for Yevgeny’s LGBT club. Apparently some of the parents are still pissed about the old advisor being a pedophile. Mickey doesn’t blame them, obviously, but he’s not sure why the new advisor should have to do damage control. She wasn’t the one fucking a high school kid. The other guy wasn’t even gay, so Mickey doesn’t know why they have to deal with extra fallout here.

Yevgeny never left the school; he had swim practice right after school ended, and they’re meeting him there. Mickey’s got a Tupperware full of chicken and rice and vegetables for him, because he’s going to be starving. Ian got out of bed and made it, and Mickey tried not to jump up and down in excitement over it. They’re all trying to act like things are normal. Ian making healthy food is normal.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Mickey asks Ian for about the twentieth time. He can see Ian’s left eye twitch a little because Mickey’s being annoying, but Ian doesn’t snap at him.

“Mick,” he says. He puts his hands on Mickey’s face. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He and Svetlana share a look. He should’ve let her ask. Ian can hold his temper with everyone else better. It doesn’t even make Mickey feel bad. He’s not upset that Ian knows he can’t scare Mickey away by losing his shit now and then. Mickey likes being the person Ian knows will never leave.

Mickey’s just kind of hesitant about Ian being in a roomful of random people, including idiot teenagers, while he’s still in the tail end of his zombie phase. He did get up and go for a run this morning, but it was super short and he took a two-hour nap afterward. They’re seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Mickey’s just not sure if it’s daylight or a fucking train coming.

It’s just that Ian on new meds is not how Ian normally is, and it’s hard to tell how he’s going to react to things. He has three main reactions to Mickey asking how he’s feeling; sometimes he snaps at Mickey for riding his ass, sometimes he kisses Mickey and wants to try having sex, and sometimes he starts to cry and feels useless. Mickey’s not exactly confident these teenagers are going to be the most sensitive group.

Case in point, the first thing Mickey hears when Ian walks in ahead of him is one of those little fuckers telling Yevgeny, “Wow, Yev, you don’t look anything like your dad.”

Mickey hates when people say that shit. Anyone who looks at Mickey and Yevgeny knows without a doubt they’re related. Most people assume Mickey’s the kid’s big brother instead of his dad, but that’s understandable; Mickey’s young, and he’s still got a baby face. Even Svetlana can look at the kid and see her nose on his face, the same shape around their ears. When they sit next to each other, it’s easier to notice that they look alike.

But Ian—well, Ian doesn’t get that. They jumped through a lot of fucking legal hoops to get Ian to be able to sign stuff for Yevgeny without cutting Svetlana out of the picture, because apparently the law isn’t real set up for a kid to just really have three parents; Ian couldn’t adopt Yevgeny without Svetlana giving up her rights. He’s all square with the school and he carries a notarized form in his wallet that says he can make medical decisions for the kid even if Mickey and Svetlana aren’t there. But he’s not listed as Yevgeny’s _dad_ anywhere, and Mickey knows it kind of chafes at him sometimes. It sure as fuck chafes at Mickey.

Ian’s been there for the kid exactly as long as Mickey has. There were maybe three months when Mickey got out of prison, before he and Ian got together again, that Ian wasn’t there, but it’s not like Mickey was doing a lot of parenting in that time. If Ian had been there the day Mickey shook the kid, it never would’ve happened, though, admittedly, there are a few reasons for that.

The point is, Ian’s the kid’s dad just as much as Mickey is. It’s not like Yevgeny ever tries to throw that whole _you’re not my dad!_ thing at him; Yevgeny would never do that, anyway, probably, but also Mickey knows Yevgeny doesn’t think of Ian as some outsider. Mickey’s heard him say _my mama and dads_ when he’s talking to his friends, and any time he was making shitty Father’s Day presents at summer camp he was making two. In their family, Ian’s Yevgeny’s dad, and it’s not a question, but to everyone else it seems to be.

So Mickey hates those little comments about Yevgeny not looking like Ian. And besides, the kid pulls a lot of facial expressions he’s gotten from Ian. When they’re mad, their faces pinch down the exact same way, and Yevgeny juts his chin out when he’s being stubborn just like Ian does. Just because some little asshole doesn’t know them well enough to see it doesn’t mean she should yell it out and make Ian feel shitty for the rest of the day, especially when he’s already pretty vulnerable right now.

“Sure we do,” Yevgeny deadpans. “What do you mean? We could be twins.”

Another kid says, “That one’s his stepdad, not his real dad,” and Mickey’s gearing up to give some fucking pipsqueaks a piece of his mind, but Yevgeny shoots back angrily,

“He’s my real dad, too. This is the fucking LGBT club—you guys should know people can have two dads. Jesus.”

Ian’s looking down at his feet, but he’s smiling, at least, even if Mickey can tell he’s got tears in his eyes. Svetlana shoots the annoying kid a glare that has him sinking in his chair. He probably just pissed himself.

“Here, Yev,” Ian says, holding out the kid’s dinner. “Hungry?”

“God, I’m starving,” Yevgeny says. He makes a point of saying, “You always know what I’ll need, Ian. Thanks.”

Mickey wants to give him a big hug. He knows Yevgeny’s a smart kid, but sometimes it still catches him off-guard how easily he reads all of them. Ian must be feeling the same thing, because he gives Yevgeny a shaky little smile and says, “Anything for you.”

“Okay, everyone, if you could find a seat,” the lady who must be the teacher in charge says. “We’ve got some things to go over quickly.”

Yevgeny herds them into some seats in the corner by Jordan. He still won’t tell them what’s going on at home, but he knows he can come over for dinner or spend the night whenever he needs to. He just has to make sure his parents know he’s somewhere safe. Mickey’s not sure his parents deserve much, but until Jordan actually gives him a reason to hate them, he’s got to operate under the assumption they at least care that their teenager is alive. He wants to go to their house and talk to them or something, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to make anything worse for Jordan on the nights he does go home, so he’s not entirely sure what to do here.

“Hey,” Mickey says to Jordan. “You eat any dinner today?”

“No,” Jordan admits. He stopped lying about it months ago.

“Here,” Yevgeny says, holding out the fork. Jordan clenches his jaw, but he takes it. Mickey knows pride can take a backseat to hunger, but it doesn’t really ever stop being embarrassing.

“Your parents gonna show up here?” Mickey asks.

“No way,” Jordan says with a little laugh. When he hands the fork back to Yevgeny, Mickey sees it—the proof. There’s a line of bruises across Jordan’s wrist Mickey recognizes all too well: fingers. Someone grabbed onto his wrist and squeezed hard enough to bruise. Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if there was some shaking, too. There usually is.

Mickey’s burning with anger. He nudges Ian and then Svetlana. They both follow his line of sight and clock the bruises. Neither of them have to ask what it means, either. All three of them are well aware of that shit.

“We will fix,” Svetlana hisses. “After meeting.”

Mickey nods. “We’ll make a plan.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. He’s squeezing Mickey’s leg under the desks, and when Mickey looks over at him, he’s got tears in his eyes again. Shit. Mickey forgot, in the bloodlust, that Ian’s not really in the best condition to be dealing with this right now. But what’s Mickey supposed to do? He can’t just ignore that someone’s wailing on this kid.

“I just wanted to answer any questions you might have,” the advisor lady says. Yevgeny’s told them her name like fifty times but Mickey can’t remember it. He does remember she’s the orchestra teacher, though, so he thinks he should get points for that.

The other gay parent couple in Yevgeny’s class are these two lawyers. One’s the real swishy kind Mickey used to bash just for fun. Their kid’s a real pussy, too, and Mickey’s not trying to point fingers, but he’s drawn some conclusions.

Then again, by Mickey’s standards, Yevgeny’s kind of a pussy, so he should probably shut the fuck up. He’s working on that kind of shit, the gut reaction judgment thing. It’s leftover shit from Terry’s worldview. It’s proven pretty hard to shake, even all these years later.

The swishy dad raises his hand. “Is there going to be a float in the Pride parade this year? When our older son was in high school, they did that, but after Mr. Jacobs took over he didn’t think it was a good idea.” He purses his lips after that, like he thinks Mr. Jacobs can go fuck himself. Mickey’s not sure they agree on the why there, but they sure agree about that part.

“Well, I think we’ve missed the deadline for submitting an application,” the teacher says apologetically. “I didn’t realize it was something that happened in the past.”

“We should all go anyway!” Yevgeny says. “Even without a float. Man, why didn’t we ever think of that before?”

“Probably because a pedophile was in charge,” some girl across the room with a nose ring says. Her voice is real snotty. She reminds Mickey of Mandy at that age, though Mandy never would’ve joined any kind of club. “I don’t think he was really interested in looking out for us.”

“We’re getting a little off-topic here,” the teacher says, brow furrowed like she’s already regretting taking over this club. “I think the Pride float’s a great idea. I’ll put in a request to the principal to get the application in on time for next year. As for this year, we can definitely organize a group meetup to go to the parade together.”

“Can we make shirts?” The swishy lawyer’s swishy son asks excitedly.

“Yeah!” A few other kids cry. Jordan makes a face. Mickey snorts. That’s how he’d feel if he were in this club. Mickey’s never been a big fan of group shirts. Not that he’s ever been in a group that’s offered them. Or any group at all, really.

Before anyone else can make any suggestions, the door slams open. There’s a huge, beefy guy in the doorway, and he looks pissed as hell. Mickey’s heart slams against his ribs just from the look on the dude’s face. Jordan goes rigid.

“Jordan,” the guy says. “What the _hell_ are you doing in this club?”

“Dad,” Jordan says shakily.

Now Mickey’s pissed. Jordan’s even shorter than Yevgeny, and he probably weighs less than him, too. This guy is bigger than Terry was. Knocking his kid around wouldn’t have been a fair fight anyway, but to be that fucking huge and do it? What a fucking coward.

“You are Jordan’s dad?” Svetlana asks, standing up out of her seat.

“Lana,” Ian says cautiously.

“I am, and I never gave him permission to be in this club.”

“He doesn’t need permission,” the teacher says. “This is a private school and even state schools had to do away with the LGBT club-only permission restrictions years ago.”

“He’s _my_ son,” Jordan’s dad says. “And no son of mine will be a homosexual.”

“You hit him,” Svetlana says hotly. “You tell him to leave with no care where he will sleep. You don’t let him eat. You are _no_ father.”

Anger’s radiating off her in waves. Mickey isn’t sure if she and Jordan have spent extra time together and that’s why she’s so protective or if it’s just the prospect of some guy not giving a shit what happened to his kid that’s got her so pissed. He thinks it might also be that she wants to rewrite some history. She still feels guilty about that day all those years ago, even though it wasn’t like she had a choice about it, either. Mickey thinks she’s seeing a gay kid whose dad wants to beat on him and thinks it’s her turn to make some amends.

“It’s okay,” Jordan mumbles. “I’ll just—Dad, I’ll come home.”

“Like fuck you will,” Mickey says. “He give you those bruises on your arm?”

Jordan’s eyes go wide. “I…” He tugs his sleeves down and Mickey feels blind with rage. He doesn’t remember standing up, but now he and Svetlana are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Jordan.

“You’re not touching this kid again,” Mickey says. “You want a fight? Why don’t you come hit me, big man?”

“This doesn’t need to escalate,” the teacher tries desperately.

“You really think you could take me?” Jordan’s dad sneers. “You look like the runt of the litter.”

“Oh, I am,” Mickey says, lip curling. He can feel that violent itch in his fists. It’s been a long time since he’s felt that, and even longer since he relished it. “My dad thought he was a big tough guy for hitting kids, too, especially the gay ones. You know what I learned? How to fight back. And I fight dirty, you homophobic fuck, so come and get me.”

“Oh, God,” the teacher says. She rushes over to the phone. Mickey thinks this school has security or something; she’s probably calling them.

Yevgeny stands up. “I’ll fight you, too,” he says.

“No, you fucking won’t,” Mickey snaps without taking his eyes off Jordan’s dad. “Sit down, kid.”

“Dad,” Yevgeny starts.

“No, Yev,” Ian says. He stands up and pushes on Yevgeny’s shoulder. “He obviously doesn’t feel bad hitting kids. You’re not getting in the middle of that.” He comes to stand by Mickey. He’s moving slow, but Mickey’s seen him in plenty of fights. Mickey doesn’t want to be in any fight without Ian by his side, regardless of how medicated he is at the time.

“You really think I’m going to fight you in a high school classroom?” Jordan’s dad asks.

“Oh, I don’t think you’re gonna fight me anywhere,” Mickey says. “You’re a fucking pussy. Only hit people who can’t fight back, huh? Well, I’m telling you right now—you’re not getting at this kid unless you go through me first. I’ve had the shit beat outta me by way scarier motherfuckers than you. Come take your best shot.”

He knows the guy isn’t actually going to come at him, but he’s ready if the guy totally loses it and does. He doesn’t have a gun, and he’s really not looking to shoot anyone in a school, but he’s got a switchblade at his ankle.

Just because he’s not as paranoid as he used to be doesn’t mean he’s not paranoid _at all_.

Campus security rolls up, not that Mickey thinks they’re worth anything. Their job is mostly to stop kids from cutting class. They probably don’t even know how to do a chokehold.

“Is there a problem here?” The bigger security guy asks.

“I’m taking my son home.”

“No,” Ian says. “You’re really not.”

“My son—”

“Why don’t you go ahead and call the cops?” Ian suggests. “I’m sure they’d be really interested in this whole situation.”

Jordan’s dad chews that one over, but he can obviously see Ian’s point. If he fights to take Jordan home, they can report him for the abuse.

“You want to take him home, you gotta put me in a fucking body bag first,” Mickey says. “Go ahead and try.”

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian mutters. “Can we deescalate, please?”

“I want to kick his fucking ass,” Mickey says. He’s seeing red. His teeth are clenched so hard it hurts, and his breaths are coming short and fast.

“So do I,” Ian agrees. “But not really in a roomful of kids.” Well, that’s certainly an important angle. Mickey swallows hard, blinking, thrown off. “Mick,” Ian says softly, putting his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “He’s not Terry.”

Mickey takes a big, shaky breath. He looks at the guy again. He’s big, yeah, and he’s obviously a coward. He’s _not_ Terry. Terry _would_ fought him right here in a high school classroom full of kids, no questions asked, no hesitation. Terry would never have let Mickey get as far as some LGBT club meeting, that’s for sure. Mickey puts his hands on top of his head and squeezes, like he can crush his head into being normal and back in the present.

“Jordan still is not going home with him,” Svetlana reminds everyone.

“No, he’s not,” Ian says. “But he sees that. And it’s okay. He’s going to leave now.”

Jordan’s dad is pissed. “Expect to hear from my lawyer,” he hisses.

“Expect to hear from theirs,” the swishy dad says, standing up. The guy gives Mickey a nod. Mickey returns it, a little taken aback. Right. This guy’s not going to be happy about a dude beating down his kid for being gay, either.

Jordan’s dad looks over at Jordan and says, “Don’t you dare come home.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Ian says, and Mickey can tell his resolve to deescalate this is crumbling with every word Jordan’s dad says. His hand clenches into a fist at his side as he says, “He’s staying with us.”

“And we will be ready for anything,” Svetlana adds dangerously.

The security guards escort Jordan’s dad out. The room is silent as a grave. Mickey’s harsh breathing is filling up the room. Ian squeezes his shoulder again. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t pull Mickey in close or try to talk about it. Mickey’s glad; he’s buzzing right now. The adrenaline and the violent itch and the memories of Terry are all crashing into him at once and he wouldn’t be able to take Ian comforting him in front of all these people right now.

“I think we can go ahead and end this meeting,” the teacher says meekly. No one argues. The lawyer dads come over.

“Here’s my card,” the guy says. Yevgeny takes it, since all three of his parents are battling homicidal rage at the moment. “If he gives you any trouble, you call me.”

“Thanks,” Yevgeny says. Mickey manages a nod.

The room clears out pretty fast, and then it’s just the five of them. Jordan hasn’t looked at any of them since his dad came in. Ian squeezes Mickey’s shoulder again, tentatively, and Mickey turns so he can hang onto Ian. Ian’s clutching onto the back of Mickey’s shirt.

“You good?” Ian checks.

“I’m okay,” Mickey promises. “Hey, you didn’t try to kill anyone. So the meds must not be doing a bad job.”

Ian laughs, kind of chagrined. “Well, I probably haven’t had time to build up to any mania yet,” he points out. “But it’s kind of nice to be holding you back like that. Felt more normal, right?”

Mickey laughs, but he’s all mixed up. He’s choked up and still enraged and now he’s feeling kind of embarrassed about the whole thing. It’s just…he kept seeing Terry’s wide, meaty hand coming down on him, felt the pistol whip across his face, heard bottles smashing. No way in hell he was letting that happen to some little teenage boy, especially not one who’s friends with his kid.

“Thank you,” Jordan suddenly mumbles. “Sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry for,” Ian assures him. “None of that was your fault.”

“We will keep you safe,” Svetlana promises.

“My dad knocked me around for being gay, too,” Mickey tells him.

“Who helped you?” Jordan asks.

Mickey’s throat aches. “Nobody,” he says. “Well, Ian did. Tried to.” He shrugs. “You can stay with us long as you need to, okay?”

“I don’t think he’s ever going to change his mind,” Jordan says softly, looking down at the desk.

“Then you never go back,” Ian says. “Mick can build bunkbeds to put in Yev’s room.”

Mickey scoffs. “Just fucking volunteering me for shit, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s called marriage,” Ian teases. “Thought you’d be used to it by now.”

Mickey blows out a breath. He’s drained the way he gets after a fight. He didn’t even fight and he feels this way. That doesn’t seem fair. It’s probably better, though. He hasn’t fought anyone in years. With his luck, it would reignite his old bloodlust instincts and he’d regress into the piece of shit he’s trying so hard to overcome.

Ian pulls Mickey close and drops a kiss into his hair, just like another fight a million years ago. At least this time they’re not covered in blood. “Hey,” Ian says. He squeezes Mickey’s arm and gives him another kiss. “Let’s go home.”

Mickey’s breathing eases a bit. “Yeah,” he says, leaning into Ian. “Let’s go home.”

 

Mandy goes home after three days. She gives Mickey a tight hug and says, “Take care of him.”

“Always,” Mickey says.

She smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

“You good?” Mickey asks. “Feeling good about Ryan?”

Mandy shrugs. “Today I do,” she says honestly. “But I guess we’ll see, huh?”

Mickey nods. “Sometimes it isn’t easy,” he tells her. “But I…” He swallows hard. “Mandy, I’m so happy for you.”

She nods, pulling him for another hug. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let Terry fuck this up for you,” Mickey whispers in her ear.

She laughs a little. She knows what he means—Terry can’t get to them, not anymore, but their history, his legacy, stretches on infinitely. Mickey doesn’t want that to get in her way. Not for this.

“I won’t,” she promises.

Mickey goes back to work. It’s a little easier to leave Ian now. It’s been a week and nothing’s happened. He’s moving slow and feels like a zombie, but he’s up and about and not sticking his hand on a hot grill or anything like that. It’s okay.

It’s supposed to be okay.

“Mickey!” Fiona screams from the office. Right away, he can tell something’s wrong, and he pats his pocket immediately. His phone isn’t there. Mickey must’ve left his phone in his office. He can’t believe he’d do something so stupid, not when he’s so worried about Ian. He just thought they were out of the woods, mostly.

“What?” Mickey scrambles to get into the office. “Ian?”

“Yev just called,” Fiona says, eyes full of tears. “He said you gotta come home.”

Mickey sprints down the hallway into his office and grabs his phone off his desk. Eight missed calls. Thirteen texts.

Mickey’s heart plummets. He looks at the screen—Ian called three times. The other five calls are Yevgeny. Mickey can’t breathe. He looks at the texts. The first one he sees is from Yevgeny and all it says is, _DAD COME HOME._ The lack of punctuation is the scariest part.

Mickey runs.

“Something happened?” Svetlana yells after him.

“I don’t know,” he shouts. “Ian! I gotta get home.” His hands are shaking so badly he drops his keys before he can get out the door. Before he can even pick them up, Svetlana is there.

“I will drive.”

“No, I’ll drive!” Fiona says, panicked.

“Someone has to stay here,” Mickey says, gesturing wildly. They have four cars in the lot, waiting to get worked on. Mickey can’t remember what they all need. Usually he would, but right now he can’t think about anything.

“What’s going on?” Iggy asks, poking his head in the door. “You’re yelling a lot.” Iggy and the fucking yelling. Colin pokes his head in beside Iggy.

“Ian—something happened with Ian,” Mickey says, lips numb.

“Are you gonna go home?” Colin asks.

“Yes, I’m fucking going home,” Mickey snaps. “But someone has to stay here!”

“I’m not staying here while my brother’s—whatever’s happening,” Fiona snaps right back.

“We are family,” Svetlana says, eyes hard. “I am going.”

“Well, me and Colin are here,” Iggy points out.

Mickey makes a noise in the back of his throat. Is he really going to trust his business to his two druggie brothers? He glances down at his phone, at a message from Ian that says, _I need you_. Yes, he really is.

“Fine,” Mickey says. “Just—close the office, tell people we’re not taking any more cars today. I can’t—just—”

“We’ll take care of it,” Colin promises. “It’s okay. We’re both sober today.”

Mickey’s brain would latch onto the _today_ in that sentence if his brain could latch onto anything right now. He can’t stop picturing Ian—he shakes his head hard, shaking the images away before they can fully form.

Svetlana drives how she always does, which is recklessly and fast. Mickey’s glad. He’s practically wheezing, that’s how badly he’s freaking out. He’s out the door before she even pulls all the way into the driveway, hitting the ground running.

“Ian!” He yells as he opens the door. “Ian, where are you?”

“Back here!” Yevgeny yells. Mickey takes the corner too sharp and hits the other wall but doesn’t stop. He bursts into his bedroom.

Yevgeny’s sitting on the ground, a book open on his knees. Ian’s on Mickey’s side of the bed, closer to Yevgeny, and all Mickey can see is a red tuft of hair above the covers he’s got pulled all the way up.

“What happened?” Mickey demands.

“Nothing,” Yevgeny tries to soothe him, but his eyes are wide and a little red like he’s been crying. “Ian just…didn’t feel so great.”

“Didn’t feel so great _how_?” Mickey asks, climbing onto the bed, shoes and dirty jumpsuit and all. “Hey,” he says, softer. “Can you talk to me?”

“I wanted to…” Ian’s voice peters out.

“You wanted to what?” Mickey asks, panicked.

“I didn’t do it, Mick. But I wanted to—I was thinking about…” He gulps. He’s crying. Mickey’s crying too. He doesn’t know when he even started.

“Hurting yourself?” Mickey whispers. Ian nods and Mickey blows out a harsh breath.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Yevgeny says, voice all shaky and contradicting his words a bit. “He told me. So I stayed with him and he didn’t do anything.”

“Okay,” Mickey says robotically. “That’s good, right? Telling someone?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.

“I’m sorry I didn’t pick up,” Mickey says. He puts a tentative hand on Ian’s face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“I knew you’d come,” Ian says. He reaches a hand out from under the covers and holds onto Mickey’s. “I always know you’ll come home.”

“I always will,” Mickey promises. He leans down and kisses Ian’s forehead. “You’re feeling better now?”

“A little,” Ian says. “And I already called Dr. Saria.”

“Good,” Mickey breathes. “Okay. Good. You going in today?”

“Will you take me?” Ian asks. His voice is all small the way it gets when he feels guilty about needing help. Mickey presses their foreheads together.

“Try and stop me,” he murmurs. He brushes a tear off Ian’s cheek. “Hey, Svet and Fiona are freaking out, too. You up to talking to them?”

Ian groans a little. “I freaked everyone out.”

“Yeah, well, sorry everyone loves you so much, Mr. Hot Stuff,” Mickey tries to joke. It’s hard to crack jokes when the lump in your throat’s clogging your airway.

“Will you stay with me?” Ian asks.

“Oh, I’m not leaving again for like fifty years,” Mickey promises. “You’re gonna get so annoyed with me you’re gonna kick me off the bed.”

Ian’s still crying. “Never.”

“What time are we going to see Dr. Saria?”

“Whenever,” Ian says. “He said he’ll see me whenever I come in.”

“Okay, how about we do that now?” Mickey asks. “Then we can just stay in bed and cuddle as soon as we get home.”

Ian mumbles something Mickey can’t hear. His throat’s so tight he can hardly speak when he says, “What’s that, mumbles?” He feels like he’s back in time, back in that horrible house, confused and terrified and wondering what the hell is happening.

He’s not, though. This is now, in _their_ home. They know what’s happening. He’s going to take Ian to see his doctor and they’re going to be _fine_.

“I said yeah, I want to stay in bed with you,” Ian says, a little stronger. He rarely gets clingy like this when he’s low. Maybe that’s a good sign or something, but right now it’s almost scaring Mickey more.

“Okay,” Mickey says. “Let’s just go see the doc first, okay? Up and at ‘em, Gallagher.”

Ian glances toward the top of Yevgeny’s head. Mickey knows he doesn’t want Yevgeny to see him trying to get up. He’s weak when he’s low like this; tired and cold, no strength in his muscles. Yevgeny’s probably already had a hard enough day.

“Be right back,” Mickey whispers. He kisses Ian’s forehead and then gets off the bed. “Hey, kid, c’mere. Let me talk to you.”

Fiona and Svet swoop in the second Mickey pulls Yevgeny into the hallway. Yevgeny’s lower lip starts to tremble right away. “Dad, that was so fucking scary,” he says, voice breaking.

Mickey pulls him in and holds him tight. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “My phone was in my office.”

“He was shaving and he said—he said I had to take his razor because he thought he was gonna…” Yevgeny breaks off with a little sob.

“You did the right thing,” Mickey tells him.

“I made Jordan go to school. But I couldn’t leave Ian. And I didn’t know what to say or anything,” Yevgeny admits. “I just started reading a Russian book to him.” He cries a little more as he adds, “I don’t think he understood any of it.”

That would make Mickey laugh, if he could laugh about any of this. “You did so fucking good, kid. I’m so proud of you.” He pushes Yevgeny back a little to look him in the eye. “Thank you.”

Yevgeny’s face is getting all snotty and blotchy. “I don’t know if I actually did anything.”

“You did,” Mickey assures him. “You reminded him that you’re here. He’s never gonna hurt himself with you in the room. Not ever.”

“Well, good,” Yevgeny says. “Maybe I should never _not_ be in the room.”

“Hey,” Mickey says. “We’re going to see his shrink right now. They’ll adjust his meds again. They said they could add an antidepressant if he needs it, so we’ll go tell ‘em he obviously fucking needs it. Getting the new combo right’s kind of hard. But it’s going to be okay. We’re going to fix this, okay?” _As much as it can be fixed_. He doesn’t tell Yevgeny that part. No reason to scare him more today.

But Yevgeny says, “I’ve been researching, Dad. There’s not really a way to fix it, not for real.”

Mickey rubs his eyes. He should’ve known his kid would _research_. Fucking nerd. “Well, we’re going to do whatever the fuck we can. Ian’s been stable as long as you can remember. We’re going to get him back to that.”

“Okay,” Yevgeny says shakily. Mickey pulls him in again and kisses his hair.

“I know it was scary,” Mickey says. “But I’m so glad you were here.”

“Me too,” Yevgeny says. “Made me feel like I can be like you.”

“Like me?” Mickey asks. Right now all he is is panicked and terrified. Yeah, Yevgeny can be like him, but why would he _want_ to?

“Dependable,” Yevgeny explains. He sniffles a little. “Everyone knows you’ll help them when they need it, Dad.”

Mickey’s completely gobsmacked. No one, ever, in his entire life, has called him dependable. Dependable for a beatdown, maybe, but to help? Mickey doesn’t even know what to say. He gives Yevgeny another squeeze and says, “I love you, kid.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Okay. I gotta get Ian to the doctor. I think you should probably stay home the rest of the day, too.”

“Yeah, no fucking way I’m going to school today,” Yevgeny agrees.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey says, realization hitting him like a brick. “Your perfect attendance.”

Yevgeny just stares at him for a second. “Dad, why would I give a shit about that?” He asks, disbelief in his voice. “Ian needed me.”

Mickey has to grab him and hug him again. Ian’s going to feel guilty as fuck when he realizes what happened, but Mickey’s glad Yevgeny doesn’t feel even a second of regret about it. He’s glad that even as important as school is to the kid, he realizes family is still more important. Svetlana comes out a few seconds later and absolutely smothers the kid in kisses and hugs and rapid, worried Russian, and he cries a little more than he did with Mickey because he always cries more with Svetlana.

Mickey helps Ian get dressed and into the car. They go see Dr. Saria and the other doctors running the trial and Ian holds onto Mickey’s hand the whole time. Dr. Saria writes a new prescription right there and they go straight to the pharmacy to fill it. Then, as promised, Mickey gets Ian back into bed and they stay there for the rest of the day. Mickey texts Svetlana to ask if she thinks they should get Yevgeny an appointment with his kid shrink. He sets himself a reminder to make an extra appointment with Kim. They’re just fucking therapy city in this family.

Mickey doesn’t sleep at all that night. Ian does, as expected. He took the meds easily, without even a hint of argument. He feels so fucking guilty over scaring Yevgeny like that, but Mickey keeps reminding him it’s better than the alternative. Yevgeny would’ve been a lot more fucked up if anything had happened.

Mickey looks out the window as the sun finally climbs its way into the sky. He’s not one for optimism, not really. But Ian took the meds, and he didn’t hurt himself. He called the doctor himself. He’s holding onto Mickey, even now in his sleep. He didn’t hurt himself. Mickey keeps repeating that. _He didn’t hurt himself._ Mickey presses his head against Ian’s. The sun’s coming up. It’s a new day. Ian’s got new meds. They’re all getting everything taken care of.

They’re going to be okay. All of them. Mickey doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. He settles down against Ian in the bed, and he trusts himself.

 

“Two envelopes, Yev!” Ian yells as he comes in the front door. He’s waving a stack of mail around. “They’re big ones.”

“Oh, shit,” Yevgeny breathes.

“Who they from?” Mickey asks.

“We got Northwestern,” Ian says, checking one. He holds up the other. “University of Chicago.”

“Open!” Svetlana cheers. “Then you can finally make choice.”

“Mama, we don’t know if I got into both,” Yevgeny points out.

“Fuck that,” Mickey says. “You did.”

“Come on, Yev, open them,” Jordan says.

Yevgeny groans, pulling a worried face as Ian hands the envelopes over. Mickey rolls his eyes. He knows the kid got in. So far, every single letter he’s gotten back has been an acceptance. Everybody wants him.

He opens Northwestern first, because he’s a shit who wants to leave them all in suspense. He scans the first line and then smiles. “Okay, I got in.”

They all cheer, even though no one’s surprised. “That’s my boy,” Ian says, ruffling Yevgeny’s hair. They’ve gotten even closer, like that was even possible, since the day Yevgeny stayed with him. Yevgeny had a hard time leaving him for a few weeks, but he saw his shrink and he’s not having nightmares anymore.

“Now do the important one,” Mickey says.

“They’re all important,” Yevgeny protests, but he’s already dropping that one to pick up the University of Chicago one. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed for a second. Mickey’s about to tell him to get the show on the road, but Svetlana kicks him under the table. Yevgeny cracks an eye open and they all pretend they weren’t doing anything. Yevgeny tears at the envelope and gulps as he starts to read. He whoops. “I got in!”

“Fucking told you,” Mickey says while Ian, Svetlana, and Jordan all cheer. Mickey finds himself suddenly choked up. He’s not sure if it’s the prospect of his kid going off to college, the relief that he’s staying close, or the pride that he got into such a good school. Maybe all three.

Yevgeny ducks his head, smiling, while Svetlana peppers his face with kisses. She’s throwing out rapid-fire Russian, too fast for Mickey to pick out any words except _love_ and _smart_. He’s getting a little better at Russian, but not when she gets excited like that.

Ian puts his arm around Mickey’s waist and leans into him. “Pretty crazy, huh?” He murmurs. “Our kid’s going off to college.”

“He could still live here,” Mickey says.

“Not his freshman year,” Ian reminds him. “But it’s not like he’ll be far.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. He watches Yevgeny scan through the rest of the letter, face all lit up, and he can’t breathe for a second. He pictures that fat, bald baby he couldn’t even look at without shaking and then he pictures that six-year-old with the too-serious face and the furrowed brow who wouldn’t eat anything but spaghetti for three months. The eleven-year-old who broke his arm because he was trying to climb a tree to check out a bird’s nest. The fifteen-year-old who sobbed when he heard what his parents had been through. This is Mickey’s _son_ , the one who gave him a reason to get out of bed every morning when it felt like there was no other reason, the one who crowded his way into Mickey’s heart, the one who wrote about Mickey being his hero, the one who stayed at Ian’s side when Mickey wasn’t there and made sure he was okay. Mickey’s bawling his eyes out now.

“Dad,” Yevgeny says, laughing a little. “It’s okay.”

“I’m happy,” Mickey insists, swiping at his nose. Yevgeny gets up and comes around the table to give him a hug and Mickey kind of clings for a second. “I love you, little man,” Mickey chokes out.

“I love you, too, Dad.” Yevgeny doesn’t complain about the old nickname or point out he’s a bigger man than Mickey now. He lets Mickey kiss his forehead like he’s still six.

He goes and hugs Ian, too, and says, “You know you’re my dad, too, Ian.” Then Mickey gets to feel vindicated because he’s not the only one bursting into tears at the table.

“Jeez, Yev,” Jordan says while Yevgeny finishes off the damage by hugging Svetlana and whispering something to her in Russian that makes her cry, too. “Now look what you did.”

Mickey doesn’t even care that the two asshole teenagers are making fun of them. He, Svetlana, and Ian earned this afternoon cry. Yevgeny’s not exactly dry-eyed, to be honest, but he’s a teenager so he’s fighting harder against the tears.

“Well, I wouldn’t have gotten here without them,” Yevgeny says, chin starting to wobble a little. “So I guess they can cry if they want.”

Ian sniffles hard. “We don’t even know if I’m properly medicated,” he tries to defend himself. “I can cry over anything and you can’t make fun of me.”

It makes Mickey laugh a little, through his tears. “Can it, bitch, it’s been two months since the new ones and you haven’t had an issue. Find a different excuse.”

“No excuse,” Svetlana cuts in. “Just proud of my baby.”

“I decided on a major,” Yevgeny tells them.

“You have to pick that now?” Mickey asks. “You’re not even fucking there yet.”

“I don’t have to,” Yevgeny says. “But I’m not gonna change my mind.”

“What is it?” Ian asks.

Yevgeny lifts his chin. “I’m gonna major in neurobiology and minor in psychology, and then I’ll get a master’s and a PhD and whatever else I need so I can research brain stuff.”

“Brain stuff?” Svetlana echoes.

“Bipolar. PTSD. That kind of stuff,” Yevgeny explains. He gives them a little smile. “Doctors aren’t figuring this shit out fast enough for you guys. So I’ll do it myself.”

Well, if he thought that would get them to stop crying, he was sure kidding himself. “Kid,” Mickey chokes out. He doesn’t really know where he’s going with that. He just wants Yevgeny to know how proud they are.

“Alright, guys,” Yevgeny says with a laugh. “You cry and I’ll make dinner, okay? It’s the least I could do.”

“There’s no least you could do,” Ian protests.

“But I want to,” Yevgeny insists. “I probably wouldn’t have gotten in without your shitty lives and messed up brains to write about in my personal essay, right?”

That makes all three of his parents laugh. “We are happy to help,” Svetlana says sarcastically.

“At least something good came from it,” Mickey says.

Ian grins over at Yevgeny and squeezes Mickey’s leg. “I’d say something really good came from it.”

Yevgeny shrugs and ducks his head, smiling. “Okay,” he says. “You guys just stay there. I’ll do everything.”

He gets up from the table and bustles over to the fridge to start dinner. Mickey watches him go, chest all warm and full. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna do everything.”

 

The school gym is so fucking sweltering Mickey can feel sweat running down his back. “The fuck is up with the heat in this place?” He hisses.

Svetlana’s fanning herself with a program, though she’s got another one she’s keeping pristine in her lap. “It is too hot,” she complains. “We wait all the way to M’s.”

“At least it’s not alphabetical by first name,” Ian points out.

“We’re not leaving early, are we?” Debbie asks, kind of scandalized. “That’s so rude.”

“Not having fucking AC in a school with a $20,000 a year tuition is rude,” Mickey shoots back. “Jesus, you’d think they could at least crack a window.”

“You don’t pay the tuition,” Lip points out. “So I don’t know if you can complain about tuition money not going where you want it.”

“I can complain about what the fuck ever I want to,” Mickey points out.

“No one’s ever been able to stop him from that,” Fiona says.

Someone in the row in front of them turns around to glare. Mickey glares back and the blood drains from the lady’s face. She turns back around. Jordan’s sitting on the other side of Ian, cracking up. He’s gotten used to Mickey’s antics, and he’s starting to really come out of his shell. His mom brought a bunch of his stuff over. She hugged him with tears in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything about him going home or his dad being wrong. She did say they’d keep paying for his school tuition and shit like that, so at least it’s something.

“Jesus, Mickey, you almost gave that lady a heart attack,” Mandy whispers. “Right here at her kid’s high school graduation.”

“Not my fault,” Mickey says. “It’s too fucking hot in here. Better not be this goddamn hot next week at the twins’ graduation.”

“Is Yev going to take any classes from you?” Liam asks Lip.

Lip shrugs. “Probably not unless he majors in robotics or engineering. I don’t teach generals anymore.”

“Big shot,” Carl says, rolling his eyes. “If he does, are you gonna let him coast?”

Lip makes a face. “I don’t let anyone coast.”

They’re taking up an entire row and a half at Yevgeny’s graduation, their family all lined up together. Even Hawkins and his wife are down there at the end, hilariously sitting next to Iggy and Colin. Mickey can only imagine the conversations happening down there.

Mickey hasn’t even cried once today, which he thinks is pretty impressive. He knows it isn’t going to last. The kid who got picked to give the student speech has been talking for like twenty minutes about God only knows what. Mickey didn’t know a high school graduation was going to be so fucking boring. This is the first one he’s ever been to. He wants them to get this show on the road so he can get out of here.

“…And step into adulthood!” The kid finally winds down. Everyone claps.

Mandy snorts. “Imagine not being an adult already by the time you’re eighteen.”

Ian shrugs. “I don’t think it’s so bad,” he says. “I’m glad Yev still mostly feels like a kid.”

“I guess that’s true,” Mandy agrees. “But only for Yev.”

They laugh, and the lady turns around again. Mickey raises his eyebrows. She doesn’t even try glaring this time.

Finally, _finally_ , they start reading out the names. Apparently the kids don’t even get their actual diplomas today. They get an empty holder thing and the diploma comes in the mail during the summer. This entire thing is a total waste. Except they did get to see Yevgeny come in wearing his cap and gown. Mickey thought back to his stupid little kindergarten graduation and got a bit choked up. It didn’t count as crying, though.

Luckily, this is a rich private school with small class sizes, so there aren’t a ton of kids ahead of Yevgeny. Alicia Marks gets her diploma and Mickey nudges Ian and Svetlana, on either side of him. The guy reading names pauses for a second. Mickey can’t really blame him—the poor kid’s saddled with a real fucking doozy of a name.

After a second, he says hesitantly, “Yevgeny Mikhailovich Yevgenivna Gallagher Milkovich.”

They’re not supposed to cheer, but like fuck they’re following that rule. Their whole row explodes into cheers. V puts her fingers in her mouth and does one of those loud whistles that splits the air. They get some dirty looks, because they’re causing a ruckus, but Mickey doesn’t care.

Yevgeny stands up from his seat and walks up to the stage. He gets the empty diploma thing and shakes the headmaster’s hand. Then he turns to look at the crowd with a big grin on his face. He holds up his free hand and sticks up his middle finger.

“No fucking way!” Ian laughs.

“Mickey,” Kev hoots, yelling down the row. “You tell him to do that?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Mickey says, eyes filling up with tears. He didn’t tell Yevgeny to do that, but there’s no question who that was for. Mickey swallows the lump in his throat and yells out proudly, “That’s my fucking son!”

They get more dirty looks, but he doesn’t care. Yevgeny did that for him. He did it for their family, to remind everyone at this fancy school that he’s South Side through and through. He did it to show everyone he’s proud to be part of their family, even if everyone else thinks they’re trash.

Ian’s on one side of Mickey, holding his hand, and Svetlana’s on the other. Mickey looks over at Svetlana. She’s smiling, tears in her eyes. So much of her life the last eighteen years has been about this, about getting Yevgeny into adulthood and taking care of him. “We raised good boy,” she says. She leans in and kisses his cheek.

“Yeah, we did,” he agrees. He squeezes her hand. “You did a good job. Thanks, Svet.”

“Thank you,” she says.

He looks over at Ian. The new meds, after Dr. Saria adjusted the dosage, are working better than they could’ve hoped for; Ian’s lost a few pounds without even trying, without doing anything dangerous or stupid. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about that either way, but Ian feels better. He _really_ feels better. He has more energy than he did on the old meds, but not in a manic way. It’ll take longer before they can tell if it’s making a difference with his memory or anything like that, but Mickey thinks it’s going to work out. He just has a good feeling that it’s all going to work out. He never would’ve trusted that even five years ago, but he trusts it now.

“Proud?” Ian asks him.

“I’m real proud,” Mickey says. He leans in and Ian meets him halfway for a kiss. Mickey puts his hand on Ian’s face and they just smile at each other for a minute.

“Can you believe it?” Ian murmurs. “This life? Can you believe we’re really here?”

Mickey bites his lip. He thinks of all those years ago, shoving Ian away time and time again, then finally deciding he was ready for Ian only for Ian to run away. He thinks of how hard it was to be around Svetlana and how he didn’t even want to look at Yevgeny. He thinks about being locked up and thinking he was going to die, day in and day out. He thinks about those first hopeless months when he got out and everything felt fucked.

And he thinks about the good times, the times Yevgeny crawled into his lap and gave him hugs, all the times he and Svetlana have laughed and joked around. He thinks about finding Mandy again, how he’s going to walk her down the aisle at her wedding in a few months, how he works with Colin and Iggy and hasn’t killed either of them yet. He thinks about becoming friends with Fiona, big family dinners with all five of Ian’s siblings and the various significant others they’ve sported through the years. He thinks of parties at the Alibi, reminiscing with Kev and V about their pimp days, finally being able to tell Amy and Gemma apart now even though they always try to trick him just as a test.

And Ian. He thinks of that first hesitant date they went on after their disastrous hookup and the horrible morning when Mickey shook Yevgeny. He thinks of meeting Ian at a restaurant and spilling his drink all over the table because he was so nervous, both of them laughing and finally breaking the weird ice. He thinks of their kisses, their fights, their wedding, the boring days of picking out new sheets, the terror of all those missed calls a few months ago and the feeling of Ian clutching onto him.

Mickey wouldn’t have believed it, back before. He wouldn’t have believed he’d live this long, and he certainly wouldn’t have believed he’d get all this. But he did. Here they are, a real family. He doesn’t feel unworthy. He doesn’t feel like it’s going to disappear in a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers. “Ian, I believe it.”

Ian smiles at him, that smile Mickey can still see when he closes his eyes. They lean in for another kiss, and then they sit back with their family and watch their son graduate.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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